A poem by Thomas Thornburg from Ancient Letters

The wolf-wind howling down the steppes
Balloons the market-bound babushka,
Mottles the cheeks of malchiks slipping
Past the pale of teacher’s rozha;
Fast the western evening fades
On car, on sledge, the nation’s freight.
It is the vulkov wind that chills you,
Ivan. I have no wish to kill you.
Ivan, at your evening’s troika,
After your long day is done,
First the vodka, then the pickle,
La, oh la, la, la.
Let the ancient balalaika
Sing to you a single sum,
Two songs with a single burden
As we were wont to sing as children:
La, oh la, la, la.
It is the wind of wolves that chills you,
Ivan. I have no wish to kill you.
The wind is out of a frozen north:
The frozen rose, the frozen garden.
Our footing upon frozen earth,
Our hope, our prayer, our human mirth,
Darksome and uncertain.
From Salamonie to the Severn
Now we draw the winter curtain,
Fasten fast the winter door
On terrace, on the lowest tavern
Where drink the bitter winter’s poor,
Darksome and uncertain.
The wind is out of a frozen north,
The wind is out of Bering Strait,
Wenceslaus shall not go forth.
The frozen day is frozen slate,
Cold as hate,
Short. Late.
It is the wind of wolves that chills you,
Ivan.