Aged by time
toughened by the curse
the land is more confused
about purpose than the damn universe.
All the revolutions and empty bellies
only gave anaemic moods
and anaerobic songs.
Snow, Vodka,
and the Matryoshka dolls
speak of the Petrograd glory.
The wind of the ballet
and the bony chess players
with toneless jackets move you.
Tipsy cats
and the icy hand
of the Siberia makes
your stay
a riddle.
Thy Vox 
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