By Pavel Chichikov
Children baked like suckling piglets
Abandoned in a rubbish tip
As green as maple buds, cut off
Between the breastbone and the lip
Or left abandoned like a pup
Whose mother's brisket is cut up
If I have picturesquely said
The office of the newly dead
Gone to dinner soon thereafter
Shining with accepted laughter
I will commend myself to that
Which burns the infant with the fat
Never hear the final terrors
Of children spoonfed molten metal
Faces shattered from their mirrors
Boiled alive in iron kettles
No matter if they die unseen
Although from heaven hear them keen
Father where, O father where
Can be the cantering nightmare
On which you sprang and rode away
Father tell me, father say
Listen for the sound of hoofs
Thundering on children's roofs
Love come riding tall and brave
Or even saints will not be saved
(Click here to follow Pavel's ongoing epic poem “The Shoulder of the Sun.” You may visit Pavel's website at http://www.greyowlpress.com.)
