by Brett Rutherford
adapted from Fyodor Sologub, 1918
They
have killed my Russia already,
and
placed her in an unmarked grave.
Here
I must choke back my weeping,
feign
happiness amid the evil crowd.
Sleep
in your grave, my Motherland,
until,
in some long-awaited spring,
lightning
will shoot from sunken loam,
and
in a flood, our dreams will live.
How
long must these funereal vigils
go
on, disguised as celebrations?
How can we not betray our
sadness
as the parade of triumph rolls on by?
