I am the last Napoleonic soldier. It’s almost two hundred years later
and I am still retreating from Moscow. The road is lined with white
birch trees and the mud comes up to my knees.
The one-eyed woman wants to sell me a chicken, and I don’t even
have any clothes on.
The Germans are going one way; I am going the other. The Russians
are going still another way and waving good-by. I have a ceremonial
saber. I use it to cut my hair, which is four feet long.