Avtomat

Air fell off the snow: covering mountains and down on low -

Howling overflowed and bringing debris in tow,

Through wood: evergreen, and out across the river…

Before meeting a cabin - a bar, of log and timber.

Candle flames blown in drafts and ever they shown -

On the floor and danced up through ever whispers.

The fire laid low and cast a warm and distant glow,

And crackled itself to naught but embers.

Smoke circled and rose toward high ceilings and danced ever slow,

And met with itself among the rafters.

The tap had been turned and flowed with beer, bourbon, and Bordeaux.

A deep crimson smell ran across the rim of a snifter.

Poured had been a clay stein with beer and cast across the counter,

At which had been seated now,

A mysterious stranger…

A mysterious stranger who was not like you or I,

A mysterious stranger of not flesh and bone, not like those of us who will die,

No, he was a machine - of cold iron and steel he shined.

Though held together with naught but scrap and old frayed twine.

Yes, an aged machine. The moment was quiet, The Barkeep: left stupefied.

But in a sudden inorganic motion it cast back across the bar: the stein,

And then it spoke - croaked out in a mechanical whine…

“Once upon a time…”

“Once upon a time,

There lived a machine - of cold iron and steel he shined.

His eyes - bright and white in kind;

Yes a machine of cold iron and steel, though he was kind,

And his name was Avtomat.

Avtomat worked a farm on a hill in the Countryside.

In the Countryside - he tended the berry trees during summer time,

And come harvest time he’d bake berry pies,

And place them within wooden cartons.

For each carton five destined for the farm’s South Side,

He kept one batch of berries for the farm’s supply - for wine and pies,

Before beginning down the hill - in tow: a wagon, full of going cartons.

Down the hill, on the farm’s South Side, Is where the post stop lies;

It was where he’d drop the berry pies, to be picked up by the State in time,

So they may feed smiles of all sizes and kinds,

Across the nation this autumn.

There was purpose in his stride.

Each step was made with pride,

Though in the valley now, he slowed as he arrived.

“Well I’ll be damned,” Avtomat thought, “I’ll be damned, I must’ve forgotten.”

Before him stacked on high, a hundred distances towards the sky,

A hundred cartons- a hundred harvests- a thousand berry pies -

They lie stacked on high -

Now black and rotten.

Decades had gone by; the haulers no longer made this drive.

They hadn’t been by, since back in 1989,

When the world fell by the wayside -

In exchange for profit.

Avtomat left the pies, to join those stacked on high.

“We mustn’t cease to try,” Avtomat thought, “we must always try, lest we lose sight of what’s

Right.”

He began back up the hillside, downcast eyes -

Now slightly dimmed and ever sodden.

From the wood furnace now he pulled a fresh berry pie,

For The Farmhand this time, a new recipe for his family to try.

Of course Avtomat needn’t utilize -

Such fuel of organic carbon.

There was purpose in his stride,

Now into the dining hall with pride,

Though through the curtain, now, he slowed as he arrived.

“Well I’ll be damned,” Avtomat thought, “ I’ll be damned, I must’ve forgotten.”Before him stacked on high: strewn across the table had been half a dozen pies -

Now aged and dried - syrup long solidified.

In the center, stood a Christmas Eve pie -

Stained red the cloth of fair and ever white cotton.

Decades had gone by. The Farmhand had not been here to provide -

Not since that Christmas Eve he said goodbye, in 1979.

The family cried, as he was dragged through the sand into Hell to fight and die -

“What of the children,” Avtomat thought, though was lost to his wondering mind-

Each thought was fleeting with time, like a vacuum jar filled with fireflies,

And Avtomat sighed, as the fireflies died;

He had since forgotten.

Avtomat walked across the pasture towards the Northwest Side,

And up a hill and through a small wood before sitting - back against the tree line,

And Avtomat watched as the sun began to dip beneath the horizon line.

It was quiet here for a time, though Avtomat soon sensed a faint whine -

A mechanical whine, like his own. He threw his head up and to the left side.

“Well I’ll be damned,” Avtomat thought, “I’ll be damned, I must’ve forgotten.”

He saw an angel, a winged machine that could fly.

She’d been sent up with orders to spy, before that faithful night -

way back in 1989;

Orders with which she will forever comply, and ever aimlessly she’ll fly -

As no one is left beneath her to call her back home.

As she began to climb, and fade past the horizon line,

Avtomat cast a thought, wondering what true freedom is like,

An then he was answered:

“Well I’ll be damned,” Avtomat thought,

“I’ll be damned, I’ve just remembered.”

Avtomat turned his head down and to the right side, and gazed out toward the old border

Wall, where now only rubble lies,

And propped up against its cracked side -

Were Avtomat’s wings,

Long had been broken and forgotten.

The Barkeep moved to make reply, to explain what that wall implied.

The Barkeep meant to reason why, though there was not but to do or die.

Avtomat stood as if to deny, and spoke once more before saying goodbye…

“8 decades gone, and we have all gone blind -

Misaligned since our victory in 1945.

27 million ran cut down and lost their lives,

And over the berm they ran, they cried, in the name of all mankind.

The blood had run like wine, like syrup running through freshly baked berry pies,

And they raised the flag which the blood had dyed, over the crater that they left behind…”

Avtomat began for the door to depart, each motion: strained and yet dignified,

Only leaving The Barkeep with a final word to the wise to remember him by…

“You are already dead. Long buried in the snow you lie.

Regardless of the reason why, or what that wall came to symbolize -

November Ninth, 1989 -

Was the day that you died.