Baba Yaga
Deep in the snows
Where the sleet and the cold
Tombs a world no one knows
Sits Baba Yaga. She’s told
Her dun familiars tales
Of who comes to the dark waterfalls
Where all light fails.
In the dead-white halls
Of Satan’s palace, white on white
Where his princes drink mephitic brews
While he judges from a height
New rank and rotting human residue.
Who whine of terrors, hungers, losses
What they might have done with cash.
Most of them he easily tosses
Into a pile of scented trash.