VERTICAL LIMIT

Описание: The runway here's a cliff edge, a perilous line.
The mountains stand in crosshairs, replacing command.

Two hearts of steel. No bird. A roar.
In headphones — whisper: «bro...» through static's pour.
On map — a border, just a dry-design,
On air — a gasp: «Mama...» and tracers' shine.
The R-105 barely breathes. Cold logic — foe.
The calculation's done. Decision's aglow.

The choice is not of water or of fire,
But IN WHICH OF THESE DARKS to burn with honest pyre.
Where orders are just numbers in a foreign log,
And duty is the roar of your own engines' cog.

In sight — a convoy. Not men. A target's blight.
Two five-hundred-kilos break their hold in flight.
The blast — the cliff responds, a thund'rous echo's call.
A fault? No. Liquidation. Jettison. That's all.
The goal — clear sky for strangers, young and brave,
And conscience that no longer seeks a path to save.

The choice is not of planet or of star,
But WHOSE SKIES will emboss you in stone's memoir.
Where honor is the vector leading into glare,
And valor's just to bear your own sight's dare.

«The Falcons» on the air. Own voice. Decree:
«We're hunting. For your head.» A grim decree.
Three needle-missiles — three new aims confessed.
Own air-defence ahead. The same behind — suppressed.
The circle's shut. One outcome stands, alone,
A point in space where every path is blown.

The choice is not of living or of death,
But WHICH OF THESE DEATHS to claim with your own breath.
Where homeland is no flag upon a rocket's frame,
But steel's resonance with the silence of the stone's claim.

The final climb. In silence. To the height.
The mountain in the glass. No foe. Accepted sight.
The impact — is a point. No blast. A merger's state.
Vertical's limit.

Peace.

Granite.

[End]