The town of salt, the fortress, is no more.
The Wagnerites have brought it to the ground.
The tipping point of this most bloody war
Is reached, as to the west the big guns pound
Retreating beaten men, not homeward bound,
But to a new graveyard, there to expire
And go to pieces, never to be found
Amongst the rotting fragments in the mire.
In Kyiv the thespian, unrivalled liar,
This hero of a West that’s lost its way,
Tastes of the meat he draws forth from the fire,
And in his thoughtlessness is heard to say:
“I do believe it needs a little salt.”
The sleeping soldier wakens with a jolt.
— D.N. O’Brien