Out In the Cold
And so the winds of change blew from Gorky Park to the last frontier of the Eastern bloc. The heavily guarded border that once separated the east from the west is gone; its high walls sledge-hammered into a million dusts, barbed wires released from their eternal coil and the rusty iron gates flung open like arms yearning for a neue found freedom.
A streak of light struggled against the heavy clouds along the horizon. It was the late part of the year and snow has just started to arrive.
Those of us who remained committed to the movement gathered into formation along the snow-covered ground. The officer cleared his throat as if to spit out the remains of the day. And in his most unusual tone he let out a command that cut through the icy atmosphere, flinging echoes down the hallowed grounds of the camp.
We stood in full attention and paid our last homage to the Flag.
Slowly the once proud mighty red flag with its hammer and sickle – symbol of the great collective struggle, was eased down from its pole. This time it descended in silence. No marching bands. No parades. No hymns, just the constant symphony of the wind that came all the way from the Baltic Sea.
And we stood there in the cold for the longest time.
In The Shadow Of the Good Chairman
From the Baltic Sea we drifted down to the Caspian Depression until we found safe passage in the land of the Good Chairman.
Along the outskirts of this remote region where the tillers of the land embraced the birth of a red dawn and where the land drenched in golden red burst of the early sun, we planted the seeds of the
neue revolution.
We became known as redbloc -- a collective farm for print, web and such. |