You know the herb they use for doses;

it grows at the edge of filthy places.

This is a tale of ancient princes:

Russia fought the Mongols here

in the lighter days of a younger year.

With a rough sack of sour complaints

the New Year took the old one’s place,

with all his horde of helpmates hustling

after joking, jostling, whistling

lewdly into their country pipes

and puffing out their piggy cheeks.

But that same land no longer laughs

since the swan-song sounded overhead,

and the bones, the bones—“Rue,” they madly cry

beneath their shroud of spring-green rye.

And the bones, they wail forevermore:

“We will always remember war.”