Vik coy

White snow, gray ice

On the cracked and broken ground,

Like a patchwork quilt it lies —

The city, tangled all around.

And above the city drift the clouds,

Hiding heaven’s light and grace.

And above the city — yellow smoke,

The city’s lived two thousand days

Under the distant shining

Of a star called the Sun.

And for two thousand years — there's war,

A war without a cause or end.

A war — the trade of the young,

A cure for wrinkles to mend.

Red, red blood —

In an hour turns simply to dust,

In two — there’s flowers and green grass,

In three — it breathes again, like us,

Warmed by the light

Of the star called the Sun.

And we know it’s always been this way:

That the ones whom fate will bless

Are those who live by other laws,

And die before their time, no less.

He remembers neither “yes” nor “no,”

No rank, no name, no fame begun —

But he can reach out to the stars

Without believing it’s just a dream —

And fall, burned up

By a star called the Sun.