A politician walks among kin
dragged from their pedestals –
he thinks of returning home.
Memories of each banishment enforced
by a hunger. Determined to change,
no matter what.
Train rides across a continent
as international waters froth and foam
with a variety of bubbled blood
from soldier’s churned bodies.
Waves roll with the wheels towards the East,
senses marinating in a union of sights and smells
writing a new history as the small group return
to the land of Persian shashlik and sweet pyrih.
Order leads to utter chaos and too much noise.
Then silence. A minute passes.
Now an aftermath of preservation
while independence stretches on shaky knees.
Lenin’s eyes stare down into the snow,
face down, toes turned up, cold as iron.
The final exile. Torn down and
carried away to expose their past.
This was originally part of my Three Random Words project using the words “lenin, foam, shasklik” from Damien Walter. The idea behind it was the exile and repatriation of politicians during the 20th Century. With so much change and so many shifting borders nationalism and a sense of belonging was both complex and often dangerous.