On The Pavement Of My Trampled Soul

Comrade Life, Let Us March Faster, March Faster Through What's Left Of The Five-year Plan.

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.

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

On I’ll Pass, Dragging My Huge Love Behind Me. On What Feverish Night, Deliria-ridden, By What Goliaths Was I Begot – I, So Big And By No One Needed?

In The Church Of My Heart The Choir Is On Fire