Fyodor's souls

The hands of the day are nailed on my door
The full moon impaled on the fairy stick

the magic potion I stirred
with the spoon of devotion
in a chalice of sins

The panther of the night jumps through the sun
retracing one last line of life

A clenched fist over a satin hand
captures the last rush of air;
the train of the distance
draws nearer on the orbit of trust

The church locks herself up to prevent the needy
from stealing its chairs. the monument is still
counting Fyodor's souls
while my soul kneels in the snow

Copyrighted Rahman,Brigitte Arlette-2000