Oh Russia
Russia…
I hear symphonies and underlying notes of soulful
loss and pieces of Dostoyevsky and still she lumbers forward with
Tchaikovsky attending to the beat and refuses to look far ahead
at the leader who is stomping angrily in the snow looking
for the borderline knowing this earth belongs to him
and him only…
The world cries against him which enflames him
like men in backyards throwing kerosine at their
barbecues, exerting control over hot coals,
the tanks filled with children keep moving
and shooting and the people, they say they are
not running but the baby carriages filled with
spotted dogs, babies, canned tuna and handguns
progress to the western Ukraine border. We are all
onlookers: fearful, our mouths stuck shut with cello
tape, our wrists bound, our feet shoeless,
like those forced to watch the witches hang or
the Holocaust victims fall into the graves they
were forced to dig. Some say it will be stopped
but there are some who see the spread of evil
like an ink stain on a dark blotter and one country
seeps into another taking everything and everyone
with them.
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