The primal light runs azure-clear,
beyond the edge, a golden dome is drawn;
the forest whispers, free and sheer—
“eternal is the island, not the pawn.”
With soulful joy, the nights grew red,
their hours spilling softly through the years;
the giants still endure instead,
contesting concrete’s rise and sneers.
Yet gloom descends upon my gaze,
amid the songs of painted birds;
their smiling masks, their hollow praise—
the priestesses of elvish words.
They lure again to courts of sin,
their voices rustling like the reeds;
like Buddha drifting deep within,
his breath dissolved in sky’s retreat.
And still I trust this dazzled isle,
that shames the multitude of seas;
though wrapped in Russian spirit’s guile—
O save me, Lord, from all such friends as these!