Thursday, April 13, 2017

White Face Of Frost

White Face Of Frost
© Surazeus
2017 04 13

Sun gleams sharp through branches of ancient pines
and glitters white on thousand-year-old snow
that shrouds like a coffin the small wood shack
hidden in the shadow of Ural Mountains.

Eyes of Apollo glitter with gold fire
as the gaunt-faced corpse of Frankenstein glares
at blank paper clear as infinite truth
on wobbling desk where sun rays burn through gloom.

"Inspired by Nadezhda, my wretched muse,
I, bold Osip, the last son of Apollo,
am lone warrior who dared wrestle the python,
that Kremlin Caucasian who drinks our blood."

Pushing open broken door of old shack,
Osip squints at the beaming rays of light,
and stares at ice floes in the Kolva River
that clank like gunshots in cold morning air.

"My heart is frozen like those chunks of ice,
helpless, carried nowhere on gushing stream
of blind fate by rats who obey the bear,
since I am the lone wolf who goes nowhere."

Stretching arms and legs, cramped by six long months
sitting at the wobbling desk in old shack,
Osip breathes deep freezing air of red dawn,
and watches purple night bleed the cracked sky.

"I feel like a vampire waking from sleep
after I sat in coffin of my shack,
enduring bitter snow storms of bleak winter
that gnawed my stone heart for a thousand years."

Crunching white bread baked hot in the small oven,
Osip scratches itch on his round bald head,
and peers across the vast white plain at peaks
of Ural Mountains gleaming gold at dawn.

"Alone I stare into white face of frost,
since I am going nowhere from nowhere,
though I live buried alive in this coffin,
and squint, consoled that I am poor yet free."

Trudging seven circles around old shack,
whistling melody of obscure folk song,
Osip touches stone that gleams white through snow,
then smiles at owl in oak tree who blinks slow.

"I am frail shadow of Apollo, true,
for I am Misery cut down by wind,
and I must beg shade of my soul for truth,
yet I die unalone, far from my muse."

Apollo grips broken branch from old oak
and stands on white stone by broad Kolva River
to watch ghosts of princesses and warriors
pass by his shack over thousands of years.

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