A Poem for Ivars

A picture of Latvia:
You as a boy lifting potatoes behind a horse,
Swallows ticking wings in a farmyard sky,
The generals of winter a day yet closer.

In the hungry faces, the simple hands
And this hard road through the furrows of Moscow,
I see a richer earth still living, wooden songs
That could pull your people's faith.

If a man should come now to your door
Selling motorways, a rustle of money in his eyes;
Do not buy his road, for it leads
To all our lost riches, our need of God.