We reflect in the comfort of warm peace - Oleg Volk
We reflect in the comfort of warm, peaceful homes
That history's trails loop back on themselves
TV and newspapers debate the same topics
Contained in the pages on dusty bookshelves
The words like “empire”, “democracy”, “dire”
Have sounded thus even back in the day
When forefathers went to fight fire with fire
Their stiff armored ranks keeping neighbors at bay
At least we can savor our own Pax Romana
That legions enforce at no small cost
Watching with pride the victorious Triumphs
Forgetting of liberties recently lost
We promise ourselves that all will be well
Times have changed since 1848
Authoritarian hordes will retreat
Defeated by HTML barricades
Yet we know that sword stops the eloquent pen
Cannon censors the writers dead
And in pawn to the King's – or the President's men
We lie meekly in self-made beds
Some say: “Times have changed from the bad old days”
They may even believe those words
But we know the future is almost ablaze
With more encompassing wars
Girdling loins with arms in dead of the night
To stem fright and the enemy twain
Ready to flight by the first morning light
We still retreat again and again
While thugs we elect harm in our names
We like ourselves all the same
We vote with ballots instead of blades
Playing meekly the same fixed game
We reflect in the comfort of warm, peaceful homes
That history's trails loop back on themselves
TV and newspapers debate the same topics
Contained in the pages on dusty bookshelves
The words like “empire”, “democracy”, “dire”
Have sounded thus even back in the day
When forefathers went to fight fire with fire
Their stiff armored ranks keeping neighbors at bay
At least we can savor our own Pax Romana
That legions enforce at no small cost
Watching with pride the victorious Triumphs
Forgetting of liberties recently lost
We promise ourselves that all will be well
Times have changed since 1848
Authoritarian hordes will retreat
Defeated by HTML barricades
Yet we know that sword stops the eloquent pen
Cannon censors the writers dead
And in pawn to the King's – or the President's men
We lie meekly in self-made beds
Some say: “Times have changed from the bad old days”
They may even believe those words
But we know the future is almost ablaze
With more encompassing wars
Girdling loins with arms in dead of the night
To stem fright and the enemy twain
Ready to flight by the first morning light
We still retreat again and again
While thugs we elect harm in our names
We like ourselves all the same
We vote with ballots instead of blades
Playing meekly the same fixed game
