Pressed against frosted windows:
the rosy cheeks of the officer’s children
who have pleaded again to come out and play.

Watching our frozen faces,
our laborious steps through thick snowdrifts, they
understand they are better off still inside.

Our bones hurt. Exhausting march
back to barracks takes its time. In the distance
I see through clouded eyes faint green light blinking.

Chain of metal cargo holds
rumbles through my head. Women and children and
beaten men, shivering, disembark, stumble

with stricken looks one after
another filing in neat lines to barracks
that will barely buffer them from bitter cold.

I learn not to stare too close,
for some will die tonight. Their eyes do not look
up to acknowledge guard who gnaws a cigar.

Just to shoot some life into
this procession of the soon-to-be dying
he fires in the opposite direction.

Silence, except one whimper.
All eyes watch wounded dog plead to his master
for mercy. Cruel, cold-hearted guard only laughs.

The day I died I heard his
laugh, vowed I would return. In a life beyond
life, time beyond time, here we gather again.

The children romp, their laughter
echoing across tundra. Spirits of souls
held prisoner there roam the snowy prairies.

As for me: my friends and I
fetch firewood for all who return. We play
fetch in the snow with the dog brought back to life.

Sometimes when snowstorm rages,
some claim they see that heartless guard trapped in ice,
shuddering, freezing ghost of Siberia.