Poems
33. A Tale of Two Presidents
Both are ethnic Russians.
One is Jewish, the other is Christian.
One trained as a lawyer and lives by the law,
The other trained as a spy and acts outside of the norm.
One is a man of the theatre, an actor, director, producer,
Delivering satire, laughter and comedy.
The other man’s forte is fear and worldly power,
Dispensing death, desolation and tragedy.
One knows about acting,
Is skilled at engaging, performing and staging,
Knows how to imagine and create a persona,
Can skillfully probe a strong character’s psyche,
Knows how to depict common human passions,
And is deeply committed to serving his people.
Life’s been an idealist’s adventure for Volodymyr Zelenskyy
The other knows about spying,
Is skilled at bribing, blackmailing and lying,
Knows how to dissemble, and hide his true self,
Can skillfully probe another man’s weakness,
Knows how to play his cards close to his vest,
And is deeply committed to Russian expansion.
Life’s been an imperialist’s game for Vladimir Putin.
Zelenskyy, Zelenskyy!
Man of the century!
Volodymir Oleksandrovych,
Neither powerful nor rich:
Man of the theatre,
Man of the people,
Man of Ukraine,
Vladimir Putin’s Ukrainian nemesis.
Both are ethnic Russians.
One is Jewish, the other is Christian.
One trained as a lawyer and lives by the law,
The other trained as a spy and acts outside of the norm.
One is a man of the theatre, an actor, director, producer,
Delivering satire, laughter and comedy.
The other man’s forte is fear and worldly power,
Dispensing death, desolation and tragedy.
One knows about acting,
Is skilled at engaging, performing and staging,
Knows how to imagine and create a persona,
Can skillfully probe a strong character’s psyche,
Knows how to depict common human passions,
And is deeply committed to serving his people.
Life’s been an idealist’s adventure for Volodymyr Zelenskyy
The other knows about spying,
Is skilled at bribing, blackmailing and lying,
Knows how to dissemble, and hide his true self,
Can skillfully probe another man’s weakness,
Knows how to play his cards close to his vest,
And is deeply committed to Russian expansion.
Life’s been an imperialist’s game for Vladimir Putin.
Zelenskyy, Zelenskyy!
Man of the century!
Volodymir Oleksandrovych,
Neither powerful nor rich:
Man of the theatre,
Man of the people,
Man of Ukraine,
Vladimir Putin’s Ukrainian nemesis.
32. Russian Businessmen Dying Like Flies:
At First There Were Ten; Then There Were None
The mystery deepens,
The plot line thickens.
At first there were ten,
Then there were none . . . .
Friends of Putin,
Millionaire businessmen,
Gazprom guys and “well-oiled” Execs,
And a couple of oligarchs,
With something to live for,
Have been dying like flies,
Dropping from high-rise
And hospital windows,
Or falling into the sea,
Or just falling down dead on the floor
From gunshots or knife wounds galore,
Or found hanged in their homes,
Friends of Putin no more.
At first there were ten;
Then there were none.
Three did not die alone,
But there’s no comfort in death
When your wife and children
Die by your side.
How often do oligarchs,
Strong family men,
Commit double or triple
Murders and suicide?
It takes courage and daring
To leap from a sixth-floor window
To be shattered and scattered
On the ground or sidewalk below.
You would think that such courage
Would help one to manage
The stress you’ve been under,
Rather than take your own life,
As has been alleged (but not proven).
You would think also
That the millions in wealth that was yours
Would give you resources
To neutralize stress and overcome any fears.
What did they have in common
These ten businessmen?
They had been colleagues of Putin,
Then some, in time, became critics of him,
Like Ravil M who called for
An end to the Ukrainian war.
Some, it is said, “knew too much”,
Like Vladimir A, found dead
With his wife and daughter,
Or Ivan Pechorin
Washed ashore in Japan.
They all had this in common:
As Shakespeare wrote,
They were “assailable”
(Like Macduff and his family),
With KGB agents available,
Who could reach them
At home or away,
On land or at sea,
In Vladivostok or Surrey,
Moscow, Barcelona or Washington, DC.
At First There Were Ten; Then There Were None
The mystery deepens,
The plot line thickens.
At first there were ten,
Then there were none . . . .
Friends of Putin,
Millionaire businessmen,
Gazprom guys and “well-oiled” Execs,
And a couple of oligarchs,
With something to live for,
Have been dying like flies,
Dropping from high-rise
And hospital windows,
Or falling into the sea,
Or just falling down dead on the floor
From gunshots or knife wounds galore,
Or found hanged in their homes,
Friends of Putin no more.
At first there were ten;
Then there were none.
Three did not die alone,
But there’s no comfort in death
When your wife and children
Die by your side.
How often do oligarchs,
Strong family men,
Commit double or triple
Murders and suicide?
It takes courage and daring
To leap from a sixth-floor window
To be shattered and scattered
On the ground or sidewalk below.
You would think that such courage
Would help one to manage
The stress you’ve been under,
Rather than take your own life,
As has been alleged (but not proven).
You would think also
That the millions in wealth that was yours
Would give you resources
To neutralize stress and overcome any fears.
What did they have in common
These ten businessmen?
They had been colleagues of Putin,
Then some, in time, became critics of him,
Like Ravil M who called for
An end to the Ukrainian war.
Some, it is said, “knew too much”,
Like Vladimir A, found dead
With his wife and daughter,
Or Ivan Pechorin
Washed ashore in Japan.
They all had this in common:
As Shakespeare wrote,
They were “assailable”
(Like Macduff and his family),
With KGB agents available,
Who could reach them
At home or away,
On land or at sea,
In Vladivostok or Surrey,
Moscow, Barcelona or Washington, DC.
31. Hindsight
With hindsight,
However incredible,
It now seems inevitable
And natural,
That Ukraine has turned
The tables on Russia,
Like the turn of the tide,
Like the change of the seasons,
Like death.
Like the ironies of daily life:
What goes around, comes around,
Win some, lose some; win more, lose all.
The bigger they are, the harder they fall,
Like a big dog straying onto a small dog’s turf.
Like the lessons of history
That Putin failed to apply in Ukraine. . . .
What Napoleon and Hitler learned in Russia,
The French in Indochine,
The Americans there too, and in Cuba,
And all the Big Dogs in Afghanistan.
30. The Great Slavic Sea
Anton Antonovich is my name.
I was born in Ukraine
In the late twentieth century.
I learned as a youth
Ancestral stories and struggles
Of the tribal cultures of Asia,
Heroic Kazakh and Cossack,
Tatar, Khazar and Slavic,
And how the Slavs sought new lands
To the west, travelled and settled,
Fought wars and found peace,
On central Europe’s broad plains.
But peace did not hold . . . .
The gist of the story of my nation is this:
Russians and Ukrainians were both Slavic peoples,
Descendants of the same ancient stock,
Closely related by language, customs and culture.
But Russians were hungry for empire,
While Ukrainians craved sovereignty,
Incompatible missions if both were one country . . . .
But let me go back . . . .
Our Slavic forebears had lived in caves and mud huts;
Hunting, herding, fishing, farming,
Tending bees and selling honey.
Over time they tamed and trained horses
And became skilled horsemen
On the wide Asian Steppes,
Self-reliant, nomadic, seldom at rest,
Yet often enslaved, often oppressed,
A great mix of tribes migrating west,
Escaping the plundering hordes of the Khans.
In time my people, as migrants, founded
Centres of trade and mushrooming towns
On the marshy plains of Ukraine,
And in the dark Russian forests,
And along the valleys of rivers,
Dniester, Donets, Don and Dnieper.
But we were never alone.
From the Black to the Baltic,
East and central Europe was Slavic,
Like a great Slavic sea,
Lapping at the borders
Of Rome, Greece and Germany.
The Slavs, then as now,
Were not united as one,
But a swelling ocean of disparate clans
As tribally diverse as Europe is now,
Yet with an ancient family of customs,
World-views and language in common,
A fierce medley of Slavic cousins:
Poles, Czechs, Slovaks, Slovenians,
Serbs, Lithuanians Ukrainians and Russians,
And others, too many to mention.
The first great Slavic centre of commerce and trade
Was Kievan Rus (Kyiv), a sovereign Ukrainian state
That became known as Russia’s true heartland,
A label that determined my people’s fate,
Exposing our city to conquest and hate.
Soon outlaw Russian armies from Kyiv’s hinterland
Sacked the whole city and took my people as slaves,
And for three hundred years Kyiv dropped out of sight
While Russians developed stronger centres of might
Like Novgorod, Petersburg, Moscow and Rostov.
Four centuries later Ukraine was partly restored
As a vassal Cossack state, then again was absorbed
Another hundred years on by Kyiv’s imperialist foe,
The ever-aggressive, expansionist Tsarist-led Moscow.
And to ensure that the Kyivan state would not rival Russia
The name of Ukraine was removed from the maps.
In the twentieth century Ukrainians tried again,
During the chaos of two world wars, to cast off the chains
Of now communist Russia, but global peace and security
And the West’s acquiescence rendered these efforts in vain,
And Ukraine remained within the Soviet orbit,
Politically colonized, and still a bit player on the world stage . . . .
Till Mikhail Gorbachev with “glasnost” opened a window,
Enabling Ukrainians and other Slavic nations
To end their long sentence of political bondage,
And no longer play by the playbook of Moscow.
I, Anton Antonovich, Ukrainian born,
Was in my twenties and remember it well
When the Berlin Wall crumbled and fell,
And the Iron Curtain was torn into rags,
Enabling new players on the world stage.
Some Soviet actors were ecstatic with joy,
Some were less happy, some even enraged.
Most Soviet leaders could not stifle their fears,
No longer protected by the “Big Brother” state.
The East German Stasi shed plenty of tears,
KGB agents, like Vladimir Putin, felt deeply betrayed.
The ghosts of Brezhnev and Khrushev cried in their beers,
And forty years dead, old Joe Stalin stirred in his grave.
But most Soviet citizens took it in stride,
Happy like me to see the Cold War subside.
In August ‘ninety-one
Ukraine proclaimed herself free
And assumed her rightful place in the sun,
And we free Ukrainians danced in the streets.
Ours felt like a young country, unshackled and bold,
Though she was now more than a thousand years old.
But multiple forces would challenge our sovereignty,
Including the Kremlin and corrupt leaders at home
Who conspired with Russia to re-colonize our country.
By two-thousand-fourteen Russia had seized the Crimea
And funded the “liberation” of regions along the Black Sea,
As part of a strategy to re-establish its empire
And make the Ukraine once again part of Russia.
And eight years later Vladimir Putin,
Whom we now call “Vladimir Satan”,
Sent troops, tanks and weapons,
A massive force, to bombard us and break us,
Consume our whole nation and make us his own.
My name is Anton, born in Ukraine.
I have travelled widely and studied world history.
This is what I have learned:
The most powerful nations have won
Early battles but have seldom
Won wars on another nation’s earth,
Like a big dog on a small dog’s turf.
Think of the big dogs that occupied Afghanistan,
And were repulsed by Afghans and later the Taliban.
Think of France and the US in tiny Vietnam!
And shouldn’t Putin ponder that his own nation’s
Resilience (and the cruel Russian winter)
Forced Napoleon and Hitler
To abandon their plans to colonize Russia.
It’s an old story big powers need to remember:
Foreign invaders will likely encounter
Resistance, resilience, ferocity and valour,
And the conflict becomes a war of attrition,
Until they are forced to retreat, like dogs –
Big dogs – their egos humbled and beaten,
Whimpering homeward, tails between legs.
Thus I, Anton Antonovich, born in Ukraine
Have taken up arms and will fight the invader
Until the war has been won,
Peace is restored,
And the vandals – the big dogs – are gone.
29. The Grand Inquisitor Visits Vladimir Putin: A Fantasy
Vladimir Putin stepped into the dark confessional,
knelt and slid open the wooden panel,
and spoke to the figure he thought was his Father Confessor,
Archbishop Korill: Bless me, old Father, for I am a sinner.
I both bless and curse you, my son,
for all of your sins, said the other, in the voice of a stranger.
I am pleased to meet you at last.
Who are you then? said Putin confused. How dare you be here
in the privacy of my session with Korill?
Ah, said the other, Korill’s not here, neither am I, nor are you,
and your confession’s a dream, like a ghost in the night.
Do you not know you are asleep in your chambers,
You’re not in confession, but deeply in slumber,
and I have entered your dream at the behest
of your own guilty conscience with a specific request.
I am an agent of an ancient tradition, the first Inquisition,
with the rank of a bishop, in the line of St. Peter.
I am here to extract the truth which you have been hiding.
The Grand Inquisitor is my title, torture’s my sport,
pleased to meet you at last.
You’re one I admire (in a manner of speaking).
Putin, still dreaming, tried to respond,
but his lips were shut firmly and words wouldn’t come.
Do you mind if I sit on the side of your bed?
said the visitor, and he sat on the bed and kept talking:
Actually, heresy’s my game, and it’s you that I’m stalking,
like a medieval hunter in a jungle of weeds.
Torture’s a tool, that’s all, a time-saving device,
to help the subject admit guilt for his vice.
And as an old torturer (like you) I come in the night,
So . . . here’s my first question:
Are you doing God’s work, or the work of the Devil?
Not God’s nor the Devil’s, said Putin,
As the words finally came. It’s Mother Russia I serve,
and history’s the backdrop for all that I do.
I am building an empire well into the future,
not based on religion but earthly power and right.
You don’t need for me your weapons of torture.
I have already told you the truth of my mission.
I’ve nothing to hide.
Now go back to the past. You’ve heard my confession.
Ah, you have answered me truly, you’re thinking is simple.
but the problem you have is that your mission is foolish.
By that I mean brainless, dim-witted, out-dated and daft.
Your empirical dreams will be your undoing.
The age of empires is done, it’s finished and past.
The dream you are having right now is a warning
born of the fears that you have in your heart,
born of the knowledge you’re not up to the task,
born of the lies you only pretend to believe.
The truth you and I already know:
you’re just a mafia boy, a con man and thief,
a St Petersburg gangster, a sham and a show,
a false prophet, false friend, always living a lie,
a cold-hearted murderer, a double agent and spy.
Am I missing something?
Like I’ve already said, replied Vladimir Putin,
my dreams are not just about me and personal power,
my dreams are of Russia , and all that I’ve done,
lying, or stealing, waging war or just killing,
it’s for Mother Russia, or my mother, or the Orthodox faith.
It’s for Russians wherever they live, Ukraine or Georgia,
Poland, Belarus, the Baltics, the steppes, or Caucasia
and it’s also for all Slavic peoples in Europe and Asia.
I don’t care if I’m holy, I don’t care if I’m evil.
For Mother Russia and my mother
I’ll sell my soul to the devil.
Now get off of my bed and out of my room.
Ah, Vladdy my son, you don’t understand,
The questions I asked came from yourself.
I am a construct of your own guilty mind.
I come by night like the old Inquisition,
But I am not separate from you. I am your inquisition,
born, as I said, from your own fears and dread,
created by you as you lie fearful in bed,
frightened to know you’re not up to the task,
scared that Zelensky will rip off your mask,
frightened to know that you can’t win this war,
frightened to know that you’ll never make tsar,
If you want me to go, I’ll just go back in your head,
And I’ll be here when next you’re in bed. . . .
Vladimir Putin stepped into the dark confessional,
knelt and slid open the wooden panel,
and spoke to the figure he thought was his Father Confessor,
Archbishop Korill: Bless me, old Father, for I am a sinner.
I both bless and curse you, my son,
for all of your sins, said the other, in the voice of a stranger.
I am pleased to meet you at last.
Who are you then? said Putin confused. How dare you be here
in the privacy of my session with Korill?
Ah, said the other, Korill’s not here, neither am I, nor are you,
and your confession’s a dream, like a ghost in the night.
Do you not know you are asleep in your chambers,
You’re not in confession, but deeply in slumber,
and I have entered your dream at the behest
of your own guilty conscience with a specific request.
I am an agent of an ancient tradition, the first Inquisition,
with the rank of a bishop, in the line of St. Peter.
I am here to extract the truth which you have been hiding.
The Grand Inquisitor is my title, torture’s my sport,
pleased to meet you at last.
You’re one I admire (in a manner of speaking).
Putin, still dreaming, tried to respond,
but his lips were shut firmly and words wouldn’t come.
Do you mind if I sit on the side of your bed?
said the visitor, and he sat on the bed and kept talking:
Actually, heresy’s my game, and it’s you that I’m stalking,
like a medieval hunter in a jungle of weeds.
Torture’s a tool, that’s all, a time-saving device,
to help the subject admit guilt for his vice.
And as an old torturer (like you) I come in the night,
So . . . here’s my first question:
Are you doing God’s work, or the work of the Devil?
Not God’s nor the Devil’s, said Putin,
As the words finally came. It’s Mother Russia I serve,
and history’s the backdrop for all that I do.
I am building an empire well into the future,
not based on religion but earthly power and right.
You don’t need for me your weapons of torture.
I have already told you the truth of my mission.
I’ve nothing to hide.
Now go back to the past. You’ve heard my confession.
Ah, you have answered me truly, you’re thinking is simple.
but the problem you have is that your mission is foolish.
By that I mean brainless, dim-witted, out-dated and daft.
Your empirical dreams will be your undoing.
The age of empires is done, it’s finished and past.
The dream you are having right now is a warning
born of the fears that you have in your heart,
born of the knowledge you’re not up to the task,
born of the lies you only pretend to believe.
The truth you and I already know:
you’re just a mafia boy, a con man and thief,
a St Petersburg gangster, a sham and a show,
a false prophet, false friend, always living a lie,
a cold-hearted murderer, a double agent and spy.
Am I missing something?
Like I’ve already said, replied Vladimir Putin,
my dreams are not just about me and personal power,
my dreams are of Russia , and all that I’ve done,
lying, or stealing, waging war or just killing,
it’s for Mother Russia, or my mother, or the Orthodox faith.
It’s for Russians wherever they live, Ukraine or Georgia,
Poland, Belarus, the Baltics, the steppes, or Caucasia
and it’s also for all Slavic peoples in Europe and Asia.
I don’t care if I’m holy, I don’t care if I’m evil.
For Mother Russia and my mother
I’ll sell my soul to the devil.
Now get off of my bed and out of my room.
Ah, Vladdy my son, you don’t understand,
The questions I asked came from yourself.
I am a construct of your own guilty mind.
I come by night like the old Inquisition,
But I am not separate from you. I am your inquisition,
born, as I said, from your own fears and dread,
created by you as you lie fearful in bed,
frightened to know you’re not up to the task,
scared that Zelensky will rip off your mask,
frightened to know that you can’t win this war,
frightened to know that you’ll never make tsar,
If you want me to go, I’ll just go back in your head,
And I’ll be here when next you’re in bed. . . .
28. If Putin Falls: A Medieval Morality Drama
If Putin falls, he’ll crack like an egg.
What spills through the cracks
Will be sickness itself,
A toxic mix of fluids and organs,
And the Master Poisoner himself
Will now be the poison.
They will use a mop and a pail,
Boots, goggles and gloves
To sop up the mess.
And if, as is fitting,
He’s to be tried
Post-death for his crimes,
He’ll be sent to The Hague
In a plastic ten litre bag.
He’ll be carried there openly
In a funeral march slowly,
Across all of Europe
With a banner flying above,
A sight to be pondered
By would-be dictators:
Behold the last of the Czars.
27. The Grand Inquisitor
There is an old saying:
If Christ returned to earth
And began preaching again,
He would surely be crucified,
Not hung from a cross but hanged from a tree
Or shot through the heart.
Not burned at the stake, but strapped in a chair
And fried like a steak,
Or just tortured and executed,
Or, in gentler times,
Kept behind bars for the rest of His life.
Dostoyevsky took up this theme many decades ago.
Jesus came back and walked the streets of Seville,
Working here and there the occasional miracle,
Until the Grand Inquisitor, ninety year old,
And a prince of the Church, but well past his prime,
Knew him instantly and had him arrested
And locked in a cell, and then went to see Him.
Is that You? he asked, peering into the dark.
Jesus didn’t answer.
I know it is you, said the Grand Inquisitor,
But why are you here? You are no longer needed.
The Church and the State have it all in command.
We don’t need you preaching equality, freedom and love.
We can’t all be equal. There’s not enough to go round,
And freedom and love don’t put bread on the table.
Nor can people be free to make their own choices.
Most need to be managed by the corporate elite
With eyes on ideals and feet on the ground,
No longer speaking as to children in fables.
Thus spake Ivan Karamazov to his brother Alyosha
In Dostoyevsky’s story of Christ and the Inquisitor,
A parable of parables from which emerges
A mendacious conspiracy, aimed at vanquishing
Human freedom and the spirit of rebellion
To make humans happy with bread in the belly,
No mysteries to be solved, and no choices to make.
So what would Dostoyevsky make of Vladimir Putin?
His reference to the “great dread spirit”,
The Dark Prince who tempted Jesus
Thrice in the wilderness, could be our best clue.
The third temptation was the sword of Caesar,
The power to organize and govern a worldly kingdom,
The lust for empire, the mastery of serfdom,
The leadership of a world-wide race created in jest,
Poor blind creatures who believe themselves happy,
For whom everything is lawful and sin does not exist.
There is an old saying:
If Christ returned to earth
And began preaching again,
He would surely be crucified,
Not hung from a cross but hanged from a tree
Or shot through the heart.
Not burned at the stake, but strapped in a chair
And fried like a steak,
Or just tortured and executed,
Or, in gentler times,
Kept behind bars for the rest of His life.
Dostoyevsky took up this theme many decades ago.
Jesus came back and walked the streets of Seville,
Working here and there the occasional miracle,
Until the Grand Inquisitor, ninety year old,
And a prince of the Church, but well past his prime,
Knew him instantly and had him arrested
And locked in a cell, and then went to see Him.
Is that You? he asked, peering into the dark.
Jesus didn’t answer.
I know it is you, said the Grand Inquisitor,
But why are you here? You are no longer needed.
The Church and the State have it all in command.
We don’t need you preaching equality, freedom and love.
We can’t all be equal. There’s not enough to go round,
And freedom and love don’t put bread on the table.
Nor can people be free to make their own choices.
Most need to be managed by the corporate elite
With eyes on ideals and feet on the ground,
No longer speaking as to children in fables.
Thus spake Ivan Karamazov to his brother Alyosha
In Dostoyevsky’s story of Christ and the Inquisitor,
A parable of parables from which emerges
A mendacious conspiracy, aimed at vanquishing
Human freedom and the spirit of rebellion
To make humans happy with bread in the belly,
No mysteries to be solved, and no choices to make.
So what would Dostoyevsky make of Vladimir Putin?
His reference to the “great dread spirit”,
The Dark Prince who tempted Jesus
Thrice in the wilderness, could be our best clue.
The third temptation was the sword of Caesar,
The power to organize and govern a worldly kingdom,
The lust for empire, the mastery of serfdom,
The leadership of a world-wide race created in jest,
Poor blind creatures who believe themselves happy,
For whom everything is lawful and sin does not exist.
26. Putin’s Inferno
Russia is burning while Putin sets fire to homes in Ukraine,
With long-range missiles dealing death from a distance,
But Ukrainian soldiers and civilians work as one nation To extinguish the fires as soon as they start
And rescue the victims from buildings ablaze.
Putin had mustered troops to wage war in Ukraine,
But nature repaid him with a Siberian inferno –
And the wildfires raging from Omsk to Khakassia
Are greater than the world’s other wildfires combined.
Wildfires and war fires are one and the same,
But with thousands of troops on the ground in Ukraine
Putin has few troops at home to put out the flames.
So old Russia too is burning while Ukraine is on fire,
And Putin the Fiddler is coloring maps of his empire.
The gods of war are not lacking in irony.
Putin the Gambler is trapped in a quandary:
Bring the troops home to fight the inferno
Or leave them in Ukraine to re-conquer the country.
Facing this choice, Putin opted for death on two fronts:
Allow the Siberian wildfires to rage unabated
And Russian troops in Ukraine to fight to the last.
Putin’s gamble’s been made, the die is now cast.
1. See Darkness, Feel Love
See the darkness of war as it issues from Putin,
The coldness of conquest as it flows from his will,
The starkness of hate, the lack of what’s human,
The boldness to punish, demolish and kill.
See the madness of war as it issues from Putin.
Feel love rouse Russians to freedom at home,
See love raise the flag of Ukraine's independence,
Hear love stir the hearts of Slovaks and Poles,
Know love lift the minds of all Europeans.
Feel love rouse Russians to freedom at home.
See the darkness of war as it issues from Putin,
The coldness of conquest as it flows from his will,
The starkness of hate, the lack of what’s human,
The boldness to punish, demolish and kill.
See the madness of war as it issues from Putin.
Feel love rouse Russians to freedom at home,
See love raise the flag of Ukraine's independence,
Hear love stir the hearts of Slovaks and Poles,
Know love lift the minds of all Europeans.
Feel love rouse Russians to freedom at home.
