The tribunal rose with iron tongues,
Their verdict carved in rusted bone:
"The fault is yours, and his alone—
The czar you crowned upon your throne."
You kissed the ring, you licked the boot,
While cities wept in poisoned soot.
The mirrors cracked, the bells were dumb,
And saints were smeared in sacred scum.
Then came the year—two-five, the flame,
Rebellion roared and spat your name.
The statues bled, the idols fell,
And holy rot began to swell.
No incense now, but stench of truth,
No hymns but screams from shattered youth.
The altars drowned in bile and ash,
As prophets danced in velvet rash.
A crown of flies, a throne of tar,
You reigned beneath a dying star.
Yet still you grin, your hands unclean—
A monarch of the in-between.
Anointing of the Sacred Filth
© Copyright: Руслан Трохнюк, 2025
Свидетельство о публикации №125102700485
Свидетельство о публикации №125102700485
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