They Are Drinking Here Again, Brawling, Sobbing

They are drinking here again, brawling, sobbing, to the amber woes of the accordion. They curse their luck and they hark back to a Russia - a Moscow - of other days. For my part, I duck my head, my eyes foundering in wine, rather than look fate in the face, I think of something else for a while. There is something that we have all lost forever. My dark blue May, my pale blue June, that must be why the corpse smell dogs this frantic carousal. Oh, today's a great day for the Russians the homemade vodka's flowing and the noseless accordionist's singing of the Volga and the secret police. They're grumbling that bony October caught them all in its blizzard courage has gone back to whetting the knife from its boot. A hatred shifts in the eyes rebellion grates in the raised voices and they pity the young and foolish whose blood flamed up and burned away. Where are you now and why so far? Do we shine brightly for you? The accordionist's on a vodka cure for his clap caught in the Civil War. No. the lost Russia will not be silenced. On all sides the rot feeds a wild courage. Oh Russia, my Russia, rising in Asia.