Far away in the darkness
where the chandelier skies
wash the bones of her enemies
dead white on snow drifts.
I dream of Bogatyr and Cossacks,
things strange, yet somehow familiar,
tongues no Caesar spoke, nor Catullus
strained to hear, the soft buzz of winter.
There across a Tatar plain, some eastern dragon
ventured, and epics speak of foreign men,
Vasily’s and Sven’s and Piotr’s,
with their western prows sewing occidental seeds.