High above the Dnieper, titanium Motherland towers,
Raising the sword in her right hand,
Classical goddess on the heathen steppe.
Vladimir I, washerwoman’s son,
Took Kiev by treachery and fratricide.
Winter burns with a terrible fire
No summer can match,
A peppery draught of horilka,scalding the throat.
The taxi driver grins, teeth missing:
“You want women? Very beautiful.And clean.”
Out on the frozen river, a lone fisherman
Stares down into his little ice-hole,
Waiting, waiting..
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