But I, From Poetry's Skies, Plunge Into

But I, From Poetry's Skies, Plunge Into Communism, Because Without It I Feel No Love.

I Want To Be Understood By My Country, But If I Fail To Be Understood - What Then?, I Shall Pass Through My Native Land To One Side, Like A Shower Of Slanting Rain.

Were I As Quiet As Thunder, How I'd Wail And Whine! One Groan Of Mine Would Start The World's Crumbling Cloister Shivering. And If I'd End Up By Roaring With All Of Its Power Of Lungs And More - The Comets, Distressed, Would Wring Their Hands And From The Sky's Roof Leap In A Fever.

To Us Love Says Humming That The Heart's Stalled Motor Has Begun Working Again.

Art Must Not Be Concentrated In Dead Shrines Called Museums. Lt Must Be Spread Everywhere – On The Streets, In The Trams, Factories, Workshops, And In The Workers' Homes.