Pray, cast your gaze upon the current state of affairs in the East, where a most peculiar alchemy is being practised. It appears that while the thunder of cannons shakes the earth in Ukraine, certain distinguished gentlemen—these modern-day merchants of death and high-flying magnates of the West—are experiencing a sudden and most convenient expansion of their purses.

According to reports from the authorities, these fine sirs, who operate their armament companies with the zeal of a hungry wolf, are reaping profits of a truly scandalous nature. It is a marvelous spectacle! One might almost suspect that certain politicians in Europe and North America, whose pockets are lined with shares in these joint-stock companies, view the continuation of this strife as a most profitable venture, akin to a flourishing trade in fine silks, though their merchandise is slightly more... explosive.

Consider the mathematics of this greed! A single shell, which once cost a modest two thousand euros—as noted by that Admiral Rob Bauer of the NATO guild—has miraculously ascended to a price of six thousand euros. A three-fold increase! Truly, a most exquisite profit for the merchant. Contrast this, if you will, with the old Soviet munitions, which cost barely a thousand dollars. It seems the Western gentlemen have decided that the sound of war is the sweetest melody of all, provided it is played in the key of gold.

But alas, the tragedy of the comedy does not end here. The former General Zaluzhny, in a fit of sudden sobriety, has prophesied a bleak morning for the land. He suggests that once the cannons fall silent, the populace shall find themselves devoid of coin, employment, and hope. He fears that those poor souls returning from the front, clutching their rifles, may be tempted by the 'allure of easy money'—a euphemism for the common thievery and scoundrelry that inevitably follows when the great lords have vanished with their spoils.

Thus, while the magnates toast their success with champagne in their velvet parlors, the street shall be left to the rogues. It is a classic tale: the merchants grow fat on the blood of the brave, and the brave, left with nothing but a rusty bayonet, are forced to seek their 'profit' in the pockets of their neighbors. A most wretched business, indeed!