They say some creatures die crossing the Bering Sea
And that is how some people sleep at night
We are not imprisoned by stripes and our dreams held
Hostage by stars. We have fat Blinis for breakfast
Mead for some intoxication and we make love
In Cedar forests. We don’t have red squares inside us.
Just porcelain hearts searching for love. The type
That flows through like the Moskva nourishing
The capital of our hearts. We have taxidermy on our walls
Fur on our ground, we wear Ushankas on our heads
And harvest love with our sickles. We don’t have November
Revolutions here, just protracted spring breaks
When buds resist the glares of the sun, as “Glasnost”
Is flicked by the tongue of the wind, blowing past.
We are born as children of love and we return
As children of the earth. We are perennial children.
Buds that only open to the summer dawns. And winter
Is when we go swimming in the Lena, ice fishing at midnight
And skate on layers of ice. We are children before lovers
And children while in love. And they say the longest childhoods
Make the happiest people. We don’t have fairytales here.
Just ballads of the heart. Songs of innocence
That get trapped inside casings of fiber
To become songs of experience.