Russian Bells toll with the weird asymmetry to which only a Russian soul is privy
their rhythm elastic as history
a vibration bursts and decorates the air while Onion domed churches illustrate and dot the horizon with piety, monks struggle to make them peal, ringing as if they were chalices aswirl consecrated with bread and wine body and blood according to the precepts of a grand tradition unalloyed in time
only the greatest pianists can assay this grandeur
then Orthodox priests and their Archimandrites became as solemn as grief can span decades
their sacraments and crosses icons and monstrances were hidden by the regime of horror after the Czar was cut down with bullets of loud cruelty, the Czarina, the Czarevich and every royal princess dying in a catastrophe of smoke at Ekaterinberg
their remains lost in a mine shaft, unblessed and discarded forgotten as a shooting star
finally exhumed they were buried according to their grand tradition of centuries in sepulchres of golden light fragrant incence rising and censers swirling amid evening plainsong chant
something so precious it could never be vanquished
though they were fragments only as any man in death
Flynnpoetry 