We hie to meet on the crest
Of that far off north hill
Beyond the befogged dale
And hope to remember still
Old promises to share
And dreams to keep
Deep into a dark cold night—
Wherever lost is our chance to sleep.
Where has our 7-throned dragon flown?
Can the slaughter of Irpul be forgiven?
Where has conscience and care and mercy
And plain humanity been off driven?
But find me in the womb of the dale,
Mountain tops are for lords and masters;
My path leads to despair and slogged trial
Cleaning up after others’ so well-planned disasters.
The commander points us towards Kyiv—
The butcher bill is yet but half-paid.
The game goes on, we put in our ante,
All the corpses sweetly in tight alignment laid.
Moscow rest on a fresh sea bottom;
Would the Kremlin be chasing after
And I can return home to clean off
The cobwebs that enshroud the bare rafter?
Hah, how the yankees stand supporting Ukraini
Hiding behind those NATO euro-skirts!
But tis time to stand and march for hilltops,
No matter if back, soul, and eye hurts.
One day I hope to walk past that far crest…
Commander says Attack! I guess it’s for the best.
Met by the delighted cackle of a neighbor’s babe.
Come Inside…Come Inside…Come Inside—
There’s no shelter ‘neath that old lawn astrolabe.
O, the fantastic turns of waves of rain,
While its grumble of thunder shakes our lives.
Hurry Home…Hurry Home…Hurry Home—
To your children, and husbands, and wives.
The trees bend and lift,
To catch every little thrown drop of rain.
Shut the Door…Shut the Door…Shut the door—
Before we soak the atrium again.
Yet the gutters riot run full still.
Ca Caw…Ca Caw…Ca Caw—
Calls from the elm at the top of the hill.