On stage in the public square, black clad
ballerinas, swaying, flesh out the moans
of Russia, mourn the loss of her sons
and daughters all those years ago. Bowing
to grief they push up against the brokenness,
move toward an uncertain mending,
as the old men and women look on,
knowing what they know. The crowd
around me, at once solemn and festive,
moves slightly with the dance. Above
us a grey sky hints of sun, but makes
no promises.
(Elektrastol, Victory Day, May 9, 2012)
Haunting poetry! Thank you.
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