A sinking ship. Abandon it, escape.
I’m glad my parents did and didn’t tarry.
They took along whatever they could carry,
Whatever little money they could scrape.
My motherland is not a plot of land,
It’s not the pavement or the concrete wall.
For all I care now – devil take it all,
It’s foreign to me now and its condemned.
Its literature, its music and a trail
Of childhood will thrive inside me yet.
The rest is gone. I’ve seen it lying dead.
Four shots close range. The last and final nail.
Among its victims are its greatest minds –
A gun, a noose, a razor – you select –
And if you’re lucky – banishment, neglect,
As neighbors turn away and draw their blinds.
I held out hope that change was in the air,
That people would awake and come around.
Instead I read, “Boris Nemtsov gunned down.”
To hell with you. I’m done. I do not care.