My Verse Has Brought Me No Roubles

Too Slow, The Wagons Of Years, The Oxen Of Days--too Glum. Our God Is The God Of Speed, Our Heart--our Battle-drum.

A Line Is A Fuse That's Lit. The Line Smolders, The Rhyme Explodes— And By A Stanza A City Is Blown To Bits.

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.

If You Like I'll Be Furious Flesh Elemental, Or- Changing To Tones That The Sunset Arouses- If You Like- I'll Be Extraordinary Gentle, Not A Man But - A Cloud In Trousers.

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