Beneath the fading dusk, so cold and stark,
Lies the skull of a Russian, his story dark.
Once a soldier, steeped in blood and dread,
A predator vile, with countless left dead.

Kyiv remembers, in forty-three’s grim shade,
The horrors he wrought, the lives he betrayed.
But Holland now holds his hollow remains,
While his soul still burns in hell’s cruel chains.

For fifty-two euros, he sailed through the post,
A villainous relic, despised by most.
Yet now his skull, in a Dutchman's care,
Finds peace unknown in this land so fair.

Forever in flame, his spirit writhes in pain,
Paying the price for each life he did stain.
But his skull rests easy, 'neath skies of grace,
Far from the sins of his earthly disgrace.

So gaze upon this Russian's hollow gaze,
A tale of torment and twisted ways.
For while his soul rots in eternal despair,
His skull knows Holland’s sweet, forgiving air.