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Boots stuck in the mud,

khaki pants belted above,

Renas Babakir

bullets on one side, green binoculars on the other

jackets tucked in

heavy Kalashnikovs on their shoulders

their strength carries them weightlessly

they braid their hair carelessly,

hair-banded with green, red and pink, the flowers of spring

they are mountain-hopping

chanting along their way,

old words of our ancestors

“we have no friends but the mountains”

their struggle is of their late loved ones

the martyrs of the land and freedom

their struggle is of millions scattered around

whose land vanished with a stroke of a pen.