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.

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