Russian Poets

Russian Poets
© Surazeus
2017 09 18

The dreams of life one hundred years ago
when Russians walked the steppes of windy stars
still haunt our eyes in words they carved on stones
that weep in river beds after snow melts.

Ten million faces that I wore as masks
fall clattering in the dust of signless roads
when nameless people driven from their homes
drink sorrow and snow while they pray for death.

I built small house with stone on river shore
and tended apple trees with time-gnarled hands
which I plunge into silent soil like roots
that latch me to the land where I was born.

Long before the morning star bleeds at dawn
I rip potatoes from the heart of Earth
and drink the fire of their liquid to taste
sweet water of death that thickens my blood.

While I haul bones of giants on my back
to build enormous palace for blind kings
bright Helius descends from the turning sun
and teaches me how to fashion his wheel.

We load our memories on wagons at dusk
and journey ten thousand miles beyond fear,
following the sun to the land of death
in vain search for fertile paradise lost.

We sit in circles around glowing flames
and listen to Russian poets describe
ache of love that fuels journey of blind hope
though angelic planes bomb gold walls of Heaven.

I clutch white stone carved with my secret name,
while soldiers shoot obedience in our heads,
and weave barbed wire into Icarian wings
so I may fly from vast labyrinth of lies.

With these nails that pierce my hands I construct
rocket I soar among stars to the moon
where Selene crowns me King of Nowhere
then dances ballet before our blind ghosts.

Guiding wood ship on sparkling river flow,
I sail past statues of poets and kings
who stare forlorn from dark Plutonian shore
and whisper secrets in the blasting wind.