Why! Little Figchen, how you’ve grown!
Remember me? I was your nurse
In days gone by, back in Stettin.
But now I look at you with awe –
The random years in Muscovy
Have made you into Queen of Queens,
A Russian eagle on your shield –
And that’s a scepter in your hand!
They tell me you’re the patroness
Of art and of philosophy,
That music echoes in your court;
Voltaire, d’Alembert, Diderot,
And other thinkers, at your sign
Bow down, and call you “Northern Star”;
While you, enthroned in Petersburg,
Rule from Kamchatka to Tallinn.
I think of you as Hatshepsut,
Or Sammu-Ramat, Babel’s Queen,
Ma’atkare, Ishtar reborn;
Far greater than Elizabeth –
The dunghill dame of Albion,
That childless pawn of history –
Conniving courtiers fail to sway
The Mother of the Motherland.
Some call you tyrant, I can’t say
What truth there is in jealous words;
I’m only dazzled by the sun,
The riches of the Hermitage,
The ideals of enlightenment…
I want to cradle you again,
But you’re a queen, and I’m a ghost…
Oh, little Figchen – how you’ve grown!
Gold trophy winner
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