Midnight in Moscow

The air is frosty and wet with snow and the sound of bells
and though the downtrodden people see
They do not hear the Cathedral's bells
of Saint Nicholas at midnight ; wished they were singing
From the tops of its towers, as we were leading:
A surfeit of untruths were generally feeding
The mouths of the criers, cretins and dead.

They dissect a land between me and my bed
And a stark unknown
Is as envious as untold:- Where
Meteors fall unseen and this done,
I in my sleep across the miles still keep
Solemn company.

My radio drifts out of tune.