Doors crept open to the robotic hum,

of cold Siberian wind,

The same wind that carried the ash and soot,

of burning towers pointed at the ground, and thundering pride

Of a bygone era that never knew its day,

The warm fires and whispered friendly conversation,

cut down to nothing for lack of patience,

 

Hushed now,

and forever silent,

grinning lines of hope turn to flat line despair,

small limbed gestures of movement,

to dusty remnants of immobile presence,

 

But still the formal wool coats are worn,

etched in aeronautic metal,

and eyes gaze on to the tiny inkling of light,

of what used to be the Moon,

 

Dull, unrelenting eyes of grey,

are finally met with the light of day,

to carry on into the blackness,

and cold known nowhere on Earth,

Le Sacre-Noir in place of Le Sacre-Bleu

 

But it is not their friend who walks in,

for the grave's fate holds him,

The белый, синий, and красный of a different colour,

sent to assign a different task,

 

The old Golems of Russian ingenuity gleam and stand,

Laughing at their beseecher, deep and throaty,

their thick mustaches jiggled as the breath of Hell rolled forth,

Their forward swords sliced through the atmosphere once more,

and outshine, out fire, out preform, the puny and feeble American counterparts,

The cold trumps the warm