Red flags like pools of blood

Red flags like pools of blood
We listened at the keyhole Papa 

talking to Mama and Aunt Catherine

They talk of Bolsheviks 

drinking blood from such as us
we must leave for Paris soon

even in the depth of winter

 snow covering the ground

Mama heavily pregnant
We hear a sound and rush to our chairs

Papa strides into the room

He never walks as a mere mortal

mantled in riches and power

his giant moustaches  the best

that ever decorated the winter palace
We dress in old  ragged clothes and 

board the wagon pulled 

by two mismatched nags

into the icy forrest
we trek  moving towards 

the end of Kotlin island

where the jetty joins it to 

the mainland
a Danish steamer and sanctuary

will be waiting if luck is with us.

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