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Tommy Beavitt
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Nikolay
Nikolay
There is a custom in all Russian villages,
Innate as a bride's karavai.
From the icon nook shine three bright images：
Mother Mary, her Son and Nikolai.
The saint's kindly eyes reflect souls' desires
In compassion he comes to our aid
He holds in his hands what a patron requires,
All wrapped in a gilded brocade.
All wrapped in a gilded brocade.
He gives his support to the sick and the needy,
Discretely, as if by the by,
To those who are poor and to those who aren't greedy,
Our favourite – Saint Nikolai.
In my mind's eye at night, I can picture him beckon,
In whose name, my grandfather, baptised.
December 19th, by the old style of reckoning –
Ten decades since realised,
Ten decades since realised.
O tragical fate of stalwart Russiya!
Tribulations that shocked to the core
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In the depths of our brotherly conflict I see her,
'Midst the blood, sweat and tears of our war.
In trying to restore the rule of the palace
My own grandpapa was arrested.
The sentence was carried out, brutal and callous –
No burial site is attested,
No burial site is attested.
The glad homely sounds for a while growing fainter –
Still lamplight burns steady and hot.
From the nook, still glowing, the grief-stricken saint
Mourns his namesake they took out and shot.
The hard Russian cross that is borne through the ages
In each household and by each good family.
Our uncivil war, a warning for sages,
Lest such horror once more be our destiny!
Lest such horror once more be our destiny!
He gives his support to the sick and the needy,
Discretely, as if by the by,
To those who are poor and to those who aren't greedy,
Our favourite – Saint Nikolai.
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