My eyes vacation on idyllic images of Tallin
Pressing on my retinas-
St Olav’s Spire piercing an empty Baltic sky,
St Catherine’s Passage full of those verified talents
And cobble stones unevenly pave the way to
Churches for St Mary, St Michael, St John,
St Simeon and the Prophetess Hanna, and two for St Nicholas.
The Holy Spirit Church’s clock indicates the time
I board the train to Keila.

My eyes sift through the rummage
Of over-occupation,
The remains of 90,000 german-murdered,
Innocent citizens unable to speak but managing
To visit through the blur of the train passing by.
Concrete ghosts stand gaping like dead men,
Remnants of crumbling communism-
Ravaged by time in effigy of Stalin.

I step off the train onto rickety platforms,
Driven in an old car to the pretty, quiet camp.
I read a verse from my Estonian bible and
The empty hearts of Estonian youth drink
This spirituality from a cold river of relationship
Where western tourists believe that they have brought
The beginning of religion to a freshly democratic fairy tale.