Spark

Spark a blue candle on
top of the statue of
gold Береги́ня so
all of your ancestors
cousins and half-brothers
witness the light of my
love given wavelength and
frequency. Light in the
powerless darkness of
old-country; luminance
stolen by older. Come
cluster around it, false
folk-hero features in
metal blue-lit from a-
bove, a primordial
callback to age before
wires and satellites.
Firelight on bronze in the
heart of a city; like
sacrifice made in the
nights before searching for
truth and stability
killed all the gods.

The mind will rebel against
less favored memories,
shade-shrouded soul in the
nights spent alone and be-
fore, making speaking these
truths to you difficult
seeing as paradise
hangs on the myth that we
always have been and will
be until gold Бере-
ги́ня is rust on an
old-country hillside. But
truth is that this is a
shard of our lives; that the
past is pays étran-
ger and the future a
plunging through mist-shrouded
mysteries; sun rising
at our command—so cleave
to me. Let this spark your
candle of blue: from a
million sweet downfalls I’d
always choose you.