He walked his path,
insanely brave,
held nothing back
until the grave.

Kept his spine straight,
never bowed down,
in spite of fate,
that foul-mouthed clown.

In joy or grief,
all circumstance,
carried good deeds
in his cupped hands.

He’d give you bread
or break your nose.
He walked this land
not giving shows.

He could stare down
his wicked foes;
too bad, for fighters
the path is short.

Lumps in the throats,
rounds fired skywards.
And earth-low bows
before the icons…

Original poem in Russian: Владислав Русанов. ИмпровиZ
Translation to English by Putinger's Cat