I am the last . . .
Afinal, troquei-lhe as voltas; em vez dos sapatos desirmanados, prefiro este soldado de Napoleão:
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.
Charles Simic, The World Doesn't End: Prose Poems (Harcourt, Inc., 1987)