The Old Soviet Museum
I stared at the shiny ceiling,
with colors of red, green, and blue,
at bronze statues, bold, or kneeling,
with magnificent golden hues.
I saw Lenin’s words on the wall,
in vivid Russian, I could read,
and stared at his form ten times tall,
staring back, bidding me to think.
And so, my eyes continued their gaze,
around the lavish old museum -
past red flags, ready and arrayed,
to march with pictures deep within.
And as my head traced left to right,
across the room which seemed a land,
as rich thoughts murmured in my mind,
my eyes fell on one lonely strand.
There, up high, was a piece of wall,
where time had worn through the dye,
These six words stood alone, and small,
“Freedom is always black and white.”
And though I tried to film that place,
I couldn’t. The shading wasn’t right.
So I moved to the far palisade,
where the sun shone in, gay and bright.
