The wind raved.
Raved then hushed ...
And again swept up snow
for the thousandmillion-
roofed grave
of Volga villages down below.
Chimneys -
like death candles.
Even crows
disappear,
sniffing the smoke
and the stench,
the sugary
sickly
air
ripe with roasting flesh.
Son?
Father?
Mother?
Daughter?
Whose turn
for cannibal slaughter?
No help in sight.
Snow bars the way.
No help in sight.
   The air's forlorn.
No help in sight.
Evon the clay
has all been eaten,
and every thorn.