Festung Breslau,1945

        Eight-hundred years have passed
        since Mongols scaled the walls,
their faces scalded, a fireball cast
        upon their backs, their calls

        unheeded by mute <i>Tengri</i>,
        their father in the sky.
Yet they fled with the head of Henry,
        maids in each slanted eye.

        Now with tanks they return,
        surrounding Festung Breslau.
Townhouses collapse, and streetcars burn.
        The Khazar lays down his law.

        Pity the carrion,
        the corpses on balconies,
the ruins unwoken by the sun,
        the mother on her knees.