A snowflake begins

As a white-laced weave of dreams


And dies

On the cold stones of the station square


Steel tracks

Lay a path cold as fate


Into a country of memories,

Exile and bitter words


Love is precious; so precious, it must be rationed

And we must not allow it to be stolen


By these grey skies,

Their glacial breaths


Rise up, brothers,

Rise up from your Siberian silence


Lonely is the rifle

Sitting squarely in still hands


Lonely is the certainty

Which comes at dream’s end


With resolve,

Blood and the body politic


That cold, dreadful compromise

Which is the mind of a Bolshevik.