Vologda 2025

The lamps burn low, the light recedes,
the square lies hushed in frozen streets.
Tonight they raised a tsar in bronze—
and left his shadow on the stones.

They praise the domes his orders crowned,
not those who vanished underground.
They speak of glory, sword, and cross;
they do not weigh the human loss.

The Oprichnina rode through the land,
with burning torch and bloody hand.
They marked the doors, they took the grain—
and wrote their mercy down in pain.

Now portraits hang on every wall—
the same cold eyes, the same dark hall.
Beria, Lenin, Dzerzhinsky stare,
and Stalin waits, still seated there.

The governor bows; the air is still.
The age obeys the older will.
The names may change, the vows renew—
the faithful serve, the faces few.

In other towns, stern faces rise—
Stalin’s bronze and granite eyes.
The silence builds, the cold grows tight;
old terror learns a newer rite.

They bless the harsh, the iron will,
the right to break, the power to kill.
A whisper stirs beneath the hymn:
one ruler fades, yet lives in him.

Ivan, Joseph—now again
a quieter name, but same cold pen.
The years obey; the truth grows weak;
those who remember dare not speak.

Through birch and frost, the wind is plain—
it carries neither joy nor pain.
The river hums, subdued and deep;
its murmured names will never sleep.

No granite heart, no bronze decree
can still the past’s long memory.
The city kneels to what has passed—
but grief remains. And grief will last.