by Pavel Chichikov
Were they only implements – say it who can
Pick the gold and cut the frozen wood of Magadan
Live on gruel and ascorbutic of the pine
And still return to tell of death in 1959
And even later thin-faced on the New Arbat
Near the Vakhtangov, I saw survivors squat
Beg for paupers' kopecks, hold up their signs –
We have been delivered from the Soviet mines
Can you cut your quota's wood and sleep on boards
And still be vigilant enough to pray to God?
Can you make a road so straight that vodka will
Brim-full on the colonel's car-top never spill?
Forget, forget, it doesn't matter, most are dead
Another schizoid century, whole cohorts bled
White as tundra mausolea, corpse regret,
Let them rot beneath their clothes as coverlet
Sleep like babies, fertilizer, humid soil
That's black as greasy turpentine from human oil
Who cares – they're not small in number or in power
For unrequited justice still can rear, devour
Only grace and mercy heal, and nothing less
Not scavenger indifference, forgetfulness
And that which is forgotten still can trip the foot
If you leave it lying there, a tool forgot
Visit Pavel's website at Grey Owl Press.
