Creeping mist clouds rush by with every breath
Carrying voices of ghastly Macbeth
to the lips of the wretched like the frosts' kiss of death
In the midst of the frozen metal
in January nineteen-o-two
Booming rhythm of clamping and churning of undressed and blessed few
Rotors are spinning and glistening blood
The gruesome shears of gears in sod
Churning up flesh as the land of the affluent
Nothing left lost but life's nurtured dead end
Streets of the czar are a black woven carpet
paved with seeds of sunflower on the russian red solid
frozen to earth like the deeds of the kulaks
buried below under nic's filthy palace

1998