Harley

A black beret makes him blend

Into the clones of Russian men.

His eyes speak an enigma tongue

that leaves a funny taste on your own;

His eyes tattoo a question

on your heart,

you cannot find words for it.

His eyes conceal and tease,

withdraw so close to Eureka.

His eyes love to laugh,

and find humor in youthful ignorance.

Silky lines of Pushkin

mete his Koroviev gait

His voice is high and crackly,

“Люблю тебя петра творенье”

His voice is ripened wine,

“Люблю твой строгий стройный вид”

His voice is shadow of story,

“Невы державное теченье”

His voice is mystery,

“Береговой ее гранит.”

We always wondered

what hid in his secret room,

but even more, what hid

in his mind.