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Russian soldiers sings Just dont tell mom that Im going to Bakhmut

As his voice rises through the cold air, rough yet hauntingly melodic, the soldier sings: "не говори маме, что я иду в бахмут..."—"don't tell mama i'm going to bakhmut..."

his voice trembles, not from fear, but from the weight of knowing that she would break if she knew the truth. bakhmut—once a city, now a graveyard. the streets, once full of life, are now lined with the broken shells of buildings, the burnt-out carcasses of tanks, and the frozen, twisted remains of his comrades. blood seeps into the earth, mixing with the blackened rubble, a silent testimony to the unrelenting slaughter that has turned this place into a grinding machine of flesh and steel.

he has seen men laugh before charging headfirst into fire, knowing they won’t return. he has seen brothers cradling the lifeless bodies of their friends, whispering final words into deaf ears. "брат, прости меня... мы должны идти дальше..."—"brother, forgive me... we must keep moving..." but there is no time to mourn, no time to even close their eyes. the battle does not stop for grief.

his song, a lament and a prayer, drifts over the battlefield. in it, there is pain, there is sorrow, and there is the heavy toll of war. the words come from deep within, a place untouched by propaganda, by orders, by duty. they come from the soul of a man who has walked through hell and emerged covered in its ashes.

he remembers the first time he set foot in bakhmut. the city still stood then, defiant, battered but alive. now, there is nothing left. the streets are choked with debris, the air is thick with the smell of rot and burning metal. the echoes of artillery and distant gunfire are a constant reminder that death waits just around the corner. he has seen men torn apart by shrapnel, their last moments spent screaming for their mothers, for god, for mercy. but there is none. only the endless, merciless grind of war.

"не говори маме..." he sings again, softer this time, almost a whisper. his voice is raw, heavy with exhaustion, with grief. he has buried too many friends. some, he could not even bury—only close their eyes and hope they would not be forgotten. how many more will fall before this is over? will he be among them?

bakhmut has become a name spoken in hushed tones, a place where men disappear into the fire and are never seen again. and yet, they keep coming. they keep fighting. because to stop is to die. to hesitate is to fall beneath the endless barrage of artillery and the whistling scream of bullets.

his song is not just for himself. it is for the ghosts that walk beside him, for the comrades who will never go home, who will never again see their mothers, their wives, their children. it is for the brother who bled out in his arms, whispering "не забудь меня, брат..."—"don't forget me, brother..." as the light left his eyes.

he does not sing for glory. there is none in this place. only ruin, only suffering. he sings because it is the only thing that still feels human. because in this frozen wasteland of death and destruction, his voice is the only warmth left.

"не говори маме..."—don't tell her. let her believe he is safe. let her believe he will come home. even if he knows, deep in his heart, that he may never leave this city of the dead.
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