In twilight's hush, where shadows play,
A boy's fate is sealed, his path astray,
Ivan's Childhood, a tale of woe,
A war-torn world, where innocence does go.
With heart afire, and soul aflame,
He walks the lines, where death's the game,
His eyes, like lanterns, in the dark,
Reflect the horrors, that left their mark.
The Cranes Are Flying's cry, a distant hum,
A warning of war's destruction to come,
Tarkovsky's lens, a window to the soul,
A glimpse of tragedy, that makes us whole.
Galtsev's idealism, a fleeting dream,
Kholin's despair, a heart that's lost its theme,
Ivan's focus, a singular aim,
Survival, retribution, his heart's in flames.
The past, a memory, a dream, a sigh,
A mother's love, a fleeting goodbye,
Dürer's art, a symbol of the foe,
Ivan's hatred, a heart that's forever low.
The end, a jarring note, a clash of sound,
Live action, documentary, a disjointed round,
Yet, in the chaos, a beauty remains,
A testament to war's destructive reign.
Tarkovsky's vision, a unique, bold stride,
A pioneer, in the art of war's dark side,
Ingmar Bergman's praise, a seal of approval true,
A legacy born, in the hearts of few.
Inspiration's spark, a flame that's lit,
Sergei Parajanov, Krzysztof Kieślowski, their debt,
To Ivan's Childhood, a film of great might,
A reminder of war's devastating light.
In the silence, a whisper remains,
A echo of the past, a heart that still sustains,
Ivan's Childhood, a tale of human pain,
A testament to art's power, to convey the unsaid, the unspoken, the unseen.
(Note: The review in its original form can be read here.)
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