East and West

by A. Sylazhov

Heavy eyelids smeared in shades of blue,
Swept aside my rage of crimson hue.
Heart-shaped lips locked tight in bitter pain,
Tamed the stormy oceans of my brain,
When I heard they called you by the name of Faith,
A gentle word my hardened tongue could barely shape.

A Christian cross hung from your slender neck,
Draped in the starry banner of the West.
As you descended down the marble flight of stairs,
My Iron Curtain crumbled, stripped of all its cares,
And soon collapsed beneath its heavy, rust-bound weight,
Leaving my guarded borders to a sudden fate.

Admiring the thirteen stripes of red and white,
Which bind your silken straitjacket so tight,
My pupils narrow in a sudden, sharp delight;
Like a Cosmonaut who views the turning sphere,
Soaring above Zemlya, breathless and clear.

Debauchery runs wild across your western shore,
While eastern Dedovschina bleeds us to the core.
You ride a train of pleasure, moving fast and free,
While on the Trans-Siberian, I stare at what could be.

The East desires the West, without a single bound,
Trading our ancient heritage for trinkets we have found.
The West admires the East, but keeps us at an arm,
Craving an older identity to distill and to charm.

A silver cross still hangs upon your silken neck,
Draped in the starry banner of the West.
A golden Hammer and a Sickle of red shade,
Rests on my broad Ossetian chest like a cockade.

And though we never trust the words our nations preach,
Nor the ideals they constantly attempt to teach,
We are our Motherlands in weary flesh and bone,
Two frozen empires standing in the dark alone.

If I should place my Faith in any earthly scheme,
I’d rather build it on a bright utopian dream.
Since Communism faded and will never come to be,
And Faith will act where Party fails to set us free.

Yet underneath your cross and flag of striped design,
A combat knife lies hidden in the battle line.
It pierces through a hardened Soviet heart of stone,
And thrusts into the marrow of my broken bone.