Quoted By:
Once crowned with rage, this bone-white dome,
Belonged to Pjotr, far from home.
A sodaat of the eastern wind,
In war he burned, he raped, he sinned.
Through fields of blood and stolen grace,
He carved his path, no soul left trace.
No honor stained his weathered name—
Just ash and screams and wartime flame.
But justice has a twisted gait,
And time, that patient judge of fate,
Let heroes seize his hollow pride,
And sell his skull when blood had dried.
For fifty-two, not gold nor fame,
I bought his silence, bought his name.
Now Pjotr sits in quiet gloom,
Among my books, his final room.
His grin is fixed, his sockets bare,
No screams, no fire, no poisoned air.
Just dust and thought, no marching sound—
A tyrant's end: earthbound, spellbound.
