Hands, Matches, An Ashtray. A

The Stars Of Death Stood Over Us. And Russia, Guiltless, Beloved, Writhed Under The Crunch Of Bloodstained Boots, Under The Wheels Of Black Marias.

In The Terrible Years Of The Yezhov Terror I Spent Seventeen Months Waiting In Line Outside The Prison In Leningrad. One Day Somebody In The Crowd Identified Me . . . And Asked Me In A Whisper . . . "can You Describe This?" And I Said: "i Can."

Give Me Bitter Years Of Sickness, Suffocation, Insomnia, Fever, Take My Child And My Lover, And My Mysterious Gift Of Song This I Pray At Your Liturgy After So Many Tormented Days, So That The Stormcloud Over Darkened Russia Might Become A Cloud Of Glorious Rays.

All Has Been Looted, Betrayed, Sold; Black Death's Wing Flashed Ahead.

Hands, Matches, An Ashtray. A Ritual Beautiful And Bitter.