Grad Kitezh - Svyataya Rus

O Holy Russia,

you breath, like Kitezh

deep beneath the waves.

You live in every icon face,

in every silent mouth and every eye,

hidden beneath the incense smoke

of centuries past,

In every flickering bee-fed flame,

in every leathered volume, worn

by love and spotted with the wax

and oil of midnight prayer

You live in every earthward bow,

in every blessing-folded hand,

and each lestovka climbed with sighs.

You live in every spartan chant,

that flows with yearning from  the soul,

and cries aloud through time and change,

yet in faith unchanging, still,

and there for those who seek,

beneath the waves of timelessness

... till Christ shall come again.

 Sirin

If sirin should sing

and bind the world,

intoxicated in the sweetness of her voice

if Sirin could chain the world,

fettered and entwined

in rapture of her melody

who should lift the blade

and fire the gun that widows wives

and bring the child the orphan's loss?

Who should steal the harvest,

and what greed

should seize the bread of starving, poor humanity?

What pain would be dissolved,

what sorrow flee away,

If only Sirin would sing.

The Vigil

Beneath the veil of lapping waters

and the whispering of the birch,

in the drifting mist and woodsmoke

hear the chanting for St John,

from pilgrims in the shadows

’neath the canopy of trees,

where beeswax tapers flicker

in the soft nocturnal breeze,

where flames are dim reflected

in soft patina of bronze

of icons and of crosses,

on the Baptist’s face and hands

softly lapped by smoke of incense

from censer polished bright

swayed by gnarled and calloused hands

through the hallowed hours of night

whose pilgrims softly mumble

like their fathers laid in sleep

prayers written in their memories

like waters clear and deep,

bowed before the makeshift altars

draped with linen, homely spun,

framed with branches, herbs and flowers

for the vigil of St John.

Small flames, like fireflies hover

where the waters kiss the shore,

as kneeling figures shuffle

on prostration-hardened knees,

in the hopeless hope of hearing

from the depths of Svetloyar

the bells of Kitezh ringing

for Ivan Kupala.