The Yokers

by Viacheslav Yatsko

Above the frozen country
Dawn changes sunset
Occasionally scarlet,
Continually red.

A quaint queer folk
For ages here abides
Subdued to crimson yoke
Unlike the other tribes

They fall from time to time
Into exotic trance:
In agony they mime,
In ecstasy they dance.

Then utter prayers fervent,
Their deity supplicate
To give them a conferment,
An idol to create.

And then in no time,
Instantly, at once
Appears pagan idol
As if the lightning glance.

Rolling out the red carpet
Spreading out welcome mat
Kneel down the humble puppets
To greet their cherished pet.

The creature ravens them swiftly
And greedily eats up
And vanishes completely
On shedding tons of blood.

The Yokers don’t bewail
And never they lament
Conversely, they proclaim
The idol their saint.

This alien perversion
Bewildered world condemns,
Demands complete inversion
In evil Yokelands.

The Yokers turn deaf ear,
And paying no heed,
Without any fear
With their toil proceed.

The future I can forecast:
Again there will be dawn
And it will be the Yokers
To run this rosy world.