A fridged frost of snow and ice

Steals away the beauty of night.

A land chained to poverty by Putin,

Who, above all, evades prosecution.

 

My Babushka’s cries consume my ears,

How can one live, if only through tears?

Beaten, degraded, and beginning decay,

The Russian population begins to give way.

 

We have no time to pursue justice,

When crime and poverty threaten to crush us.

Agents of truth are sealed shut with a muzzle,

Locked away as a forgotten piece of the puzzle.

 

My Babushka’s songs no longer fill my ears,

As reality begins to take away her years.

Ballet, Khokhloma, and piano don’t fill her days,

Instead, she sits on the couch in a daze.

 

A blazing fire of rage and resentment,

No longer do we accept our lack of contentment.

A land, chained to poverty by Putin,

Who cannot escape the people's prosecution.