This morning I awaken
to a message from Nazim
a pile of spindrift papers
lie beside my bed

a Moscow snowlift
passes over the Rimutakas
comes down the valley
to where we live

the water is frozen
the pipes are bursting
black ice spreading
across the winter streets

we're rounding up thinkers
painters and musicians
all the foreign alphabets -
we're going to run them in

we run them in, we run them in
we show them we're the brave gendarmes!

but Nazim has no regrets
he would like me to know
he's on his knees with happiness
deep in the drifting snow

he's happy as a sand-boy
dreaming in his cell
with pen-and-paper minuets
and a window full of minarets

he'd just like to wish me well.