Old city
Once wooden city
Twice burnt and
Resurrected city
Now as cold
As its stone walls city
Proud city Moscow -
Where everyone goes
When there’s no where else to go.
The city lives many lives
Work
School
A randez-vous
Swept into the metro -
The spider web of destination
Too many colored lines to name
the labyrinth of the everyday
The madness of one’s agenda
Just making it
Or infiltrating right in,
Through the shoves,
and the elbows,
and enormous purses.
Caught in the prison of someone else’s breath
Or watching the doors slide shut.
Babushkas - not in bright head scarves,
But gray and shabby,
Not jolly,
No - they are the monuments
Of old struggles.
They find their purpose
Establishing their presence
Amidst averting eyes of the young,
Hiding in the books or newspapers
Drowning in the sounds of their iPods.
The Old ride the metro
To remind their unwilling students
Of how things used to be.
Now sleepless city,
Commercialized city,
Too fast
and taken for granted city.
If only I could stop time,
Pause your chaos
And see your true beauty,
my City.
