I wrote a poem and about a Russian freedom fighter / terrorist who fell in love and has to choose between politics and love.
I hold a Molotov cocktail in one hand, a Malvina cocktail in the other. One contains a fiery substance, the other gasoline.
To make a Molotov cocktail, pour gasoline straight, a splash of motor oil, garnish with a dirty rag. To make a Malvina cocktail, take one part vodka, one part night off from work. Add some young politicians from the Bureau. Shake once and strain into the clear night sky on a bench not far from the bar. Garnish with a sweet kiss that I’ll not forget.
As I sit on this hill top, waiting for the order, I dream of the night we snuck away in stealth, just to hold each other close, as close as I hold this AK now.
Oh how I wish you were not an agent of the state, and I not an enemy of one. If I succeed tonight, we can be together forever. If I fail… I won’t be around for it to matter.
You made me promise not to go on this mission. I made you promise not to be in the Bureau HQ tonight. Oh Malvina, I hope you are a worse liar than me.