Russia
(1980)
My white hands haunt the ancient cold.
Icons to the stars, those gold-gilt virgins,
held in rare esteem, astound the empty walls.
Cold smokestacks puff from cabins in the snow.
Short paths detect the horrid wastes of ice below.
The workers sort, in wool, their Winter source.
-
Red Army dozes, soft-to-snooze, asleep across the
vast white waste; iced over, far to Asia's strange expanse.
Europe short averts its eyes and wanders.
White hands haunt the ancient cold.
-
Fingers tap the spittle from the broom.
Small fires boil soup upon the stoves.
The horses, pawing, seek another Spring.
All quiet, Russia bows.
-
The soul too easy slumbers in a quick December nap,
as balalaikas tumble from a daze, determined to be
heard above the present roar. Cold steel snaps.
Dreamed swords of hollow armor clink.
-
Moscow slithers in its slink of Winter snow.
White hands haunt the ancient cold.
The prisoners bow, and sulk, and go.
(1980)
My white hands haunt the ancient cold.
Icons to the stars, those gold-gilt virgins,
held in rare esteem, astound the empty walls.
Cold smokestacks puff from cabins in the snow.
Short paths detect the horrid wastes of ice below.
The workers sort, in wool, their Winter source.
-
Red Army dozes, soft-to-snooze, asleep across the
vast white waste; iced over, far to Asia's strange expanse.
Europe short averts its eyes and wanders.
White hands haunt the ancient cold.
-
Fingers tap the spittle from the broom.
Small fires boil soup upon the stoves.
The horses, pawing, seek another Spring.
All quiet, Russia bows.
-
The soul too easy slumbers in a quick December nap,
as balalaikas tumble from a daze, determined to be
heard above the present roar. Cold steel snaps.
Dreamed swords of hollow armor clink.
-
Moscow slithers in its slink of Winter snow.
White hands haunt the ancient cold.
The prisoners bow, and sulk, and go.
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