And the town is frozen solid, leaden with ice.
Trees, walls, snow, seem to be under glass.
Cautiously I tread on crystals.
The painted sleighs can‘t get a grip.
And over the statue of Peter-in-Voronezh
Are crows, and poplars, and a pale green dome
Washed-out and muddy in the sun motes.
The mighty slopes of the Field of Kulikovo
Tremble still with the slaughter of barbarians.