Wednesday, July 15, 2015

6892. RUSSIA

My white hands haunt the ancient cold.
Icons to the stars, gold-gilted 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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