field of wormwood, people weaving bitter wines into their voices, circling with them, kharavods, kharaharasvods of all the people, you are the heart of the joyful demand. the steppe tambourines are beating again in unison over earth above earth. lights of the age-old ritual, holy elders, i am knitting a spakon for you, above the taiga, above the taiga, scything out the crazed snow.