Sweet To Me Was Not The Voice

Call Me A Sinner, Mock Me Maliciously: I Was Your Insomnia, I Was Your Grief.

No, Not Under The Vault Of Another Sky, Not Under The Shelter Of Other Wings. I Was With My People Then, There Where My People Were Doomed To Be.

The Stars Of Death Stood Over Us. And Russia, Guiltless, Beloved, Writhed Under The Crunch Of Bloodstained Boots, Under The Wheels Of Black Marias.

Who Will Grieve For This Woman? Does She Not Seem Too Insignificant For Our Concern? Yet In My Heart I Never Will Deny Her, Who Suffered Death Because She Chose To Turn.

The Word Dropped Like A Stone On My Still Living Breast. Confess: I Was Prepared, Am Somehow Ready For The Test.