The horse is yawning, his eyes crumple,
small as peppers, the teeth
expand, Attila's dominion.
The sky enlightens, God smiles,
the whole Mongolia, but not Novgorod,
the home of the rose, and a granny jumps into a well,
in a curve, swiftly, into a dry well
full of dry leaves and snow.
It's not too bad sitting there.
An accent starts a contrabass sequence, the Angel of Dusk,
the granny, a tenor vocalizes in the corner.
The building was put up by the Tzar and if
the voice doesn't carry to every corner, heads will fall.
Lorin Maazel conducted with his face,
not baton, told everyone off, was not of
the record-making type, not a granny in the well.
Just sat there like Mongolia,
Leningrad under the snow, frozen
like a war horse's smile.