The skin 'round my eyes, red and raw,
infused with salt, itches fiery, alive,
shifts focus from my heart to a deeper center,
   the kulaks are nearly all gone, along with the wheat,
   and the church bells aren't ringing, instead 
they moan collectively

Nomads must settle down, 
once settled then amassed,
to till the land for the Others
who build factories, where Workers 
arise to steal said land, which bears
the fruit to sustain the people

But which people?
Such is the plan

Final dawns:
summarily,
   merrily...

She stands beside the field of grain,
grips the ancient trident while her father kills 
all of the livestock rather than give them up,
the skin around his eyes red and raw

cc: Chagall, Bachor, Sokach, 1913, 2022