Eyes: which blink
cold beyond the glacial
ice-cold and slow.
Slow as the crushing turns
through the empty aeons of space
made by the earth on its frozen axis
before the advent of the human race.
the guard's frozen effigy,
the verb sears your skin.
At least, in the Siberian night,
will kindle your heart
with their prehistoric light.
The ice cold plumes of your voice
rose as the galaxies fathomed their distances
hurtling apart, light years from man,
and the life spark of creation.
Do they hear our cries, out there, in the cosmos?
It's surely our silences which most haunt the universe.
This poem is dedicated to the memory of Osip Mandelshtam, (1891- 1938).