Carousel, by Olexandr Murashko (Ukraine) 1906
What do we see in retrospect,
when ironies are flung about,
through fall, the rise of empires checked,
or icons, in their life or death?
As if all care is cast away,
these riding girls, with costumed grace,
enjoy the fair ground where they play,
one loose to sway, one knotted scarf.
I learned today Volodymyr,
cathedral city, saint of Kyiv,
was by this artist’s Dad revered,
in icon workshop, worship site.
So Olexondr painted too,
Carousel, prize of gold award;
but died, abducted, street gang coup,
shot in the back - what turnabout.
How brief may be this lazy date,
as if this frame were fixed by lens,
when unsuspected twist of hate,
takes over reins and rides away.
A debauchee, by name translate,
RasPutin’s claim, spell Russia cast -
‘rebirth through sin’ his credal state -
haemophilia, lone can staunch.