In Your Foreign Land

Though seventy years of snow have sheathed

your homeland’s crops and landscapes—

Though communism’s twists have seethed,

gagged smiles, blockaded handshakes—

Though wanted by the butcher crew,

the chainers and the ropers—

Though still these freeze-dried grunts pursue

like A.I.-fleshed no-hopers—

Your faith is blossoming in dried holes

where there seemed no solution—

Your virtuous fragrance leads good souls

to heaven’s constitution—

Your blooming melts the snake’s controls,

confirms its retribution !!