To B. Pasternak

Dis-stance: versts, miles...
They've dis-joined us, dis-mantled us,
So that we would be quiet,
At the world's farthest ends.

Dis-stance: versts, reaches...
They've disbanded, disrupted us,
Disunited and dissolved us,
Not knowing that we are an alloy

Of inspirations and sinews...
They haven't dispirited us, but they've dispersed us,
Dissected...
Wall and moat.
Displaced us, like eagles-

Conspirators: versts, reaches...
Not dismayed, but displanted.
Across the slums of the earth's latitudes
They disarranged us like orphans.

How many is it - oh, how many - Marches?!
Since they disordered us like a deck of cards!