Ikon

Ikon
Christopher Bogart

In the turbulence of early morning,
The golden-gilded domes arise,
Ornament, profuse and intricate
Arabesque to onion point
Pinning faith into the sky.

Incense- clouded
Swirling, tumbling
Whispering, whirling,
Spiraling upward
Cascading downward
Until they reach the vortex
Splashing into tiny drops
Lightly drifting,
Lotus- blossom
Toward a future time.

Driven now,
Muddy canyons cut soiled snow.
Rutted by the tracks of tired sleds,
Their sledges plodding toward Yekaterinburg
There to see the last home,
The last refuge,
The last humbling of a czar.

Time now in a vortex:
Morals, customs, past and future,
Ideas, machines, and time arise;
And leave, in their path,
The ruins of their pride:
The house that can be no longer called home,
A house of special purpose.

And, like the droplets in the vortex,
Exiles flee the frozen land.
Blood in rivulets run
Toward the borders.
Horsed, robed soldiers rear
To guard the flanks,
Packages spill,
And are left in the slush wake.

Inland tides ebb and flow –
All mazurkas with changing partners,
Okrana and Cheka keep the time
With political tides
And a hail of shell,
Hot metal falls on frozen snow.

In a mine shaft
Lies a buckle
Made of brass
Embossed in black.
On its face,
A two-headed eagle,
So the present kills the past.