Andropov
November winter lay upon the ground.
A Soviet gray hospital compound
Did hold the Russian Premier Andropov
The party head, supreme of ev’ry Slav.
In feebleness he lay among the halls
In dim-lit rooms of white washed concrete walls.
A pallid fever fell upon his brow.
He knew not whence he reached this room nor how.
A man this night upon his deathbed he,
An aged oligarch. Mortality
Had crept into his bones. Each second may
His last one be — but not just him this day.
The enemy about to strike a blow
Preemptive. Bitter bite of death, the glow
A moment seen by comrade eyes before
The wave of heat would blind forever more.
The cruel truth: himself he could not save.
No medicine to heal, nor foil the grave.
And neither could he save the Motherland
He loved, for if the U.S. gave command
Their arsenal would not be stopped until
Obliteration left no one to kill.
Yet pow’r had he, though not to save, but end
This world. The briefcase held the code he’d send
To give the call to launch their fearsome hand,
Unleash destruction. Atoms split. A planned
Reprisal could, if launched without debate,
Become a first assault to devastate
And call down Oppenheimer’s fire upon
Their arrogant unknowing heads, whereon
Their plan to conquer Russia would instead
Descend to humble them. Although they said
The earth and all within would die. Should not
My death and our beloved nation’s lot
Be also death to all the world the same
In blaze of fire and flashing light’ning’s flame?
And if for glory’s sake all men I must
Commit to darkness, ash, and lifeless dust
Then be it so. One breath of mine, one word
My mouth to speak would cause to lie unheard
In void and stillness stay the earth in whole
Forevermore. With radiation’s toll
And poisoned ground constricting life to grow
No more. No more of life, of love below
Nor human toil, no thorn or thistle prick
The final medicine we need — the sick
To heal at once for all, and death to kill.
The human race relieved of all our ill,
No more to chase and fail. Just then his brow
Was touched and dabbed by she unseen till now
An orderly so young had come beside
His bed, a cloth of cotton white applied
To sponge his pale and sickly temple dry
With tremb’ling hand. Is she aware how nigh
The end is come for all? That she with them
Would blaze with glory here tonight? Condemn
And damn with death us all. Such waste! For one
So beautiful and young — if it were done —
To live so short, unknown and small a life
And perish burnt, irradiated. Strife
The cause. The choice but mine alone. No, not
A waste! She’d die, we’d die, with passion hot
For Mother Russia — glory, honor too!
And fire to fill the earth, her foes subdue.
One final flash to end it all for all.
What man would have, to take that choice, the gall
To make such end? O weakling man, the West,
You haven’t the strength or gut to meet that test!
The heart of Rus, the strength of Rome arise,
Yes, thrice. I am august! My word from skies
Does call down fire, and I the gods ascend
And take with me all men. I write the end.
From man’s first morn, our dawn, this destiny,
Our birthright this. Yes I ascendantly
Am final man. It’s finished certainly.
“Evgeniya,” came the word so soft from she
Within that room with him, “that is my name.”
O Zhenya, my Evgeniya. Named the same
As mother mine. So long now dead who gave
Me birth. Forgotten ere I left to save
My place among the rising ranks of men
Of skill and promise. Zhenya, now again
To hear your voice, to see in death your face.
You’ve come to me to touch my head with grace,
As when a child was I, and sing for me
To sleep… To sleep? To kill? To die? To be
O man, of man? To sleep? To cede and see
Tomorrow be, for them though not for me?
