The aftermath

Day 405, 08:31 • Published in Russia Turkey • by P. Cornelius Scipio Africanus

As I walk over the frozen russian tundra, I am mesmerised by the scene.
The last desperate fights were fought out here, in nomansland.
Wounded and dead soldiers lie everywhere, they are both russians and romanians, but mostly romanians.
The Russian winter had once again saved the motherland.
I walk towards the burning rubbles that were once houses in a suburb.
I take the bus and head for the city center. You can still see signs of Romanian presence here.
Mixed with statues of Manifesto and Smirnoff, Romanian flags, symbols and weapons lie scattered.
Among the few buildings that aren't damaged, stands the city hall.
The Russian flag still flies proudly over it, as it never ceased to do during the fights.
This is where the tide turned.
Only a few hours ago, wild battles were fought outside this building, in its neighborhood.
The same second that I am about to enter the city hall, I hear somebody shouting.
His voice is accompanied by other voices, and soon the air is filled with a celebrating sound.
In the middle of this misery, in the middle of this destruction, people still celebrate this victory.
They share their last loafs of bread with the Russian soldiers, and cover their trucks with flowers.
The Russian army heads back to Volga-vyatka and Western Siberia, but they know that the war isn't over.
They just head back to prepare for the next battle against the Romanian imperialist invaders.
Their foreign comrades walked quickly into airport hangers to prepare for other battles, in other nations.

By, botherme