The sun sets deep onto a soulful Slavic East
The moon rises pretty showing off her forlorned bruises
The many men do drink, their eyes wells of starry,
teary dreams once forgotten
too shy to say on the dim eve of this day
their hands like fruits on a tree;
to confused in blame, and scared to see
what has happened to their bountiful East
She stands beneath the heart’s belly of all that eternally
pines, only to ask why
but right now do not care what it is
or on what purpose it stands
only know-
only know that they’ll drink down the ashes
of this ruined house
until She springs to life luminous again.
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