I have felt the earthy peace that grows from the center of the circle. In rainy budapest the bus arrives; late that night we find small beds. The russians are coming after days on an ancient train. Morning in the village: eighty people, eighteen tongues, and the shock Of a coup in russia. the space yawns open like an earthquake fault. But peace is a living being, like snaking shoots of ivy that wrap and intertwine us. On the third day yeltsin stands triumphant in the street. and here a trunk yawns open: Vodka by the case, and eighty crystal glasses. we toast. we sing. we dance! My father taught me to hate the russians - their menacing blood-red on the world map - but I have felt the earthy peace that grows from the center of the circle.
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