His statue still stands in the park that once bore his name, this Lenin, the setting sun at his back, keeping watch with arm outretched - is he calling the people to follow him, or is he reaching out for the least bit of attention paid?
At his feet (does he see huddled masses seeking his teaching, or Lilliputians with ropes and pins?) the people run walk sit chat play laugh consider the future, children play at soccer hopscotch tag-you're-it and games long forgotten by ours, solemn men drink tea solemnly and in the deepest solemnity design the lives of women children lesser men, quiet women stand behind their folding tables offering soda cellphones kebab toys candy shashlik things from China, young mothers on park benches cradle infants, and everywhere people walk, stroll, amid the smells of tea tobacco grilling meats and too much perfume, the sounds of laughing children on the merry-go-round the tilt-a-whirl the ferris wheel a costly treat at a few cents a ride, headscarves and blue jeans, rainbow dresses and nike tee shirts, smiles and not-smiles, a secret shy glance at the passing foreigner, a weed in a rose garden, a guest but who sent the invitation?
Backlit by the sunset facing the coming dark watching the crowds collect their children coats picnics books he wonders: is it yet my time to leave?
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