Who weeps for the Czar they slew?
For the ships they burned?
Who, smiling with mad-dog treachery.
offers up the torch, still hot,
the stiletto, still red,
and a promise of a glimpse of the Sampo
through burning-coal eyes shining from empty skulls?
Who savors those tears that cannot moisten the dry husk?
Who weighs the value of a nameless bliss
that can be neither possessed nor refused?
Who weeps at the fresh mound of their own grave?