On the Death of Russia
The soul of Russia, my poor motherland,
In what worlds will she find sanctuary
And the peace she's never known?
Like an orphan or a cripple,
Barely alive, the Lord's beggar
Loaded with sins, like a packhorse,
Making her way from holy days to camps,
Tattered by barbed wire.
Covered with fear and loathing,
And past glories, and shame,
In a gaily flowered headdress
She threatened the world with a worn bast shoe.
We spat in her soul as we knew best,
We tried the best we could to save her.
And what we didn't dare forgive her
The Almighty, probably, will.
Torn apart, choking on blood,
When my Russia gives up the ghost
You won't save her with any messiah,
Nor Beauty, nor Faith, nor Love.
She'll rise to heaven like a black cloud,
Forgive the children who cursed her and renounced her,
She'll cover one-sixth of the earth like a shroud,
And in parting, sign it with the cross.
- ↑ The traditional footwear of the Russian peasant; also a reference to Khrushchev's legendary performance at the UN.