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The Red Square in Red-Dawn Dreams

The  Red  Square  is  sliding  over
the  icebound  river  of
the  red-dawn  dreams  of  freedom.
The  river  beneath  the  red  ice
is  flowing   through   the
grisly,  gormandizing,  guffawing
caves  of  retrospective  national  memory
we  cannot  ever  live  down,
even  if  we  ever  will.
The  universal  pattern  of  nation's  memory
has  been  stitched  by  the  poisoned  needles
of  genetic  fear  which  still  haunts
the  rustling  beechgrove   of  the  Russian  soul
all  too  ready  to  bow  down
to  any  ugly  grub,  to  any  uncouthly
writhing  groveller  of  a  maggot  effectively
marketed   to  us  as  another  mustached
father  of  nations  for  all  times  to  come.

The  Red  Square  is  gliding  over
the  spellbound  pond  of
the  red-dawn  dreams  of  freedom
which  have  been  bloodstained
by  the  savagely  executed  ghosts
of  willing  and  unwilling  martyrs
for  the  freedom  that  wouldn't  ever come.

The   Red  Square  is  drifting  over
the   enchanted  lake  of
the   red-dawn  dreams  of  freedom.
The   recalcitrant  repressive  sun  rampages  down,
through  our  withered  dry  cells  of  minds
swiftly  sailing  on  the  flood  tide
of  today's  ebbing  reform
and  sipping  the  savory  sap  of  a  subtly
hypnotizing  big  business  stench,
as  regiments  of  dawn-red  ghosts  are
marching  on,  over  the  red-brick  pavement
of  the  Square  of  the  bleeding  tombs
and   high-flying   crimes
we  have  been  living  by  in  slavish  admiration.

The  Red  Square  is  floating  over
the  bewitched  sea  of
the  red-dawn  dreams  of  freedom.
The  ancient  pavement  of  skulls  and  bones
is  duly  placid  in  its  unperturbed  indifference
welded  by  the  bleak  centuries
we  have  been  living  through,
woven  by  the  entropy  of  Time,
this  plague  of  an  uncorrupted  judge
granting  the  convicts  on  death  row
no  last-minute  reprieve,
always  sentencing,  always  executing
this  sentence  that  is  beyond  appeal.

The  Red  Square  is  being  driven  by  gusty  winds
over  the  brainwashed  ocean  of
the  red-dawn  dreams  of  freedom.
Regiments  of  red-dawn  ghosts
are  marching  on,  issuing  their
jingling  shrieks  of  muted  silence,
as  no  words  will  ever  help  convey
the  yawning  gulf  of  their  shared  woe
to  the  hearts  of  those  who  are  still  alive
and  whose  incumbent  red-dawn  ghosts
will  be  marching  over  this  ancient  stone  pavement
someday  when  another  trial  of  repressions
has  been  carried  out  in  full  sway.

The  Red  Square  is  rushing  over
the  frostbound  stream  of  Time
in  its  red-dawn  dreams  of  freedom.

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