The unwritten law, the bloodied hound,
that left its trace along the boulevard.
The bridges burned, the passport where the double-headed eagle frowned,
has filled my lungs with sombre, heavy sorrow.
Here, a crust of bread was once enough for many,
and shows were staged for every twisted taste,
yet memory will keep, with scorn uncanny,
the exile’s temper and the ace up his sleeve, disgraced.
Two centuries on and self-immolation again,
the spirit crushed in my own Moscow still;
and those untouched by freedom’s fevered pain
await their train in a stiffened, heartless mill.