In the Monastery (Suzdal)

The monastery is the size of a village. Its
Fortified walls enclose a hotchpotch of towers,
Churches and tourists. It hums with the sound of a
Thousand twangling instruments. The campanologist
Peeling his eleven o’clock solo, competes
With a team of rubber booted lawn strimmers, who
Compete with the drills of building workers, enjoined
In more restoration of the Russian soul. In
The monastery’s museum of decorative
Art, all notes are written in Cyrillic, far from
My comprehension. I stare in ignorance at
A thousand years worth of rings, pendants, winding sheets,
Bishop’s robes, goblets, crucifi, icons and the
Rest, fragments from another, parallel, culture.