By Pavel Chichikov
On the dusty street I heard the drum
Of wind and saw white scraps of paper
Blow fitfully, loose bars of iron hum
Against their fittings in the window frames
I entered one low doorway, found inside
A narrow hall, a flight of steps not far,
The flats and risers broken and not wide –
But I climbed up as quickly as I dared
Flight by flight I found blank doors, I knocked
On some, though others I passed by
And though not one was opened still I saw
Through several small peep-holes, dumb, one eye
So there were tenants here, at least so far
In some of the apartments – then a turn,
A landing and an iron gate ajar –
A furtive face peered out and muttered: ‘come'
It was a young man muffled in a coat
Who stepped aside, then handled home the bolts,
Shut the door behind me with a dozen clicks –
There first thing that I noticed was a crucifix
Where bleeding Jesus hung, or no great size
And something in it singular, I couldn't name
What made it so peculiar, then it came
At last to me, the corpus had no eyes
The room was barely furnished, broken bed,
A board on bricks that held a few old books
A broken table propped against the wall –
The man unshaven, pale and underfed
‘You're from where?' he asked me, then he sighed
‘What difference does it make, from here or not
Nobody is safe from them, to hide's
Not possible, but if you can get out
‘They'll be here any moment, and they find
Our hideouts by the signals of our minds –
The chances of surviving's less than slim –
They can see us hiding here, not Him'
The Shoulder of the Sun Part Six will be featured tomorrow.
To visit Pavel Chichikov's website click *here*
