Strides a stone trail
within the quiet of trees beside walls.
Sustained by a crust of bread leavened
in the shadows of long-winged birds,
she sings poems above the statues of Stalin.
The gulag wind throws its voices
into the caverns of her loss,
lifting the black kites flown by grief.
She stands in the line of mothers waiting,
sharing the scent of rain, of breads,
clay and love,
mining vowels from marrow,
seeing his eyes
when saying his name.