City Poems: Stalingrad

Only: How damned lovely it was, the Cossack Hordes
nefarious in no personal intent. Ah! That would be too Simple.
ceaseless in their exquisite Waves,
endless in their beauty. Blue or Green or Brown or Violet. The Same.

Still: it is said that not remembering would be for the Best.
to look back---from Stalin to Khrushchev to Putin
an ascension of ideals and the retribution to the tense heyday of it.
Locating on a Map where it may have Started,
instilling the Young Soldier with fervent
Notions: "O! Russia! O, Mother Russia!". Like an Northern Antioch!
Grinning for the Photographers. Silent. Crude in military dress,
rough-hewn regarding a Diplomatic wizard. Tyrant
again. Sitting heavy and Brooding. The Russia of past and of
Dreaming.