8

Moscow, what a vast
hostelry is your house!
Everyone in Russia is homeless,
we shall all make our way towards you.

With shameful brands on our backs and
knives stuck in the tops of our boots,
for you call us in to you
however far away we are,

because for the brand of the criminal
and for every known sickness
we have our healer here,
the Child Panteleimon.

Behind a small door where
people pour in their crowds
lies the Iversky heart—
red-gold and radiant

and a Hallelujah floods
over the burnished fields.
Moscow soil, I bend to
kiss your breast.