I want to find the soul of Dostoevsky,
and absorb the ancestral home of Tolstoy;
I want to deepen my soul
with words which weave through the remembrances
of those old women who felt the essences
of master men;
I want to wander into thick,
black stands of trees
with rough peasants
who still cut logs with axes.
I would listen to each strike of steel
echo into cold silence...
I want to feel the bells
upon their horse's bridles
ring within my spirit!
--it would be a subtle ecstasy;
it would inflame me
until I was driven
to bury my face into snow drifts
upon the Caucus plains.
Oh, that Mother Russia
might let me suckle her leathery breasts!
Perhaps she would let me sit for long hours
within her ancient churches
until frankincense
slowly soaked into my soul
as it has infused the wood of icons
over centuries.
I would sit for years
in the fragrant silence of her churches
until I heard what a soul should hear.
Then I would sing an unknown tongue
into the blue smoke
which drifts amongst the rafters
of village taverns
until white doves came down
from high metal roof tops
unto the heads and hands
of the people.
Blake Steele