The Art of Marxism: poetry
This country shaped like the head of a mare
Coming full gallop from far off Asia
To stretch into the Mediterranean
THIS COUNTRY IS OURS.
Bloody wrists, clenched teeth
bare feet,
Land like a precious silk carpet
THIS HELL, THIS PARADISE IS OURS.
Let the doors be shut that belong to others
Let them never open again
Do away with the enslaving of man by man
THIS PLEA IS OURS.
To live! Like a tree alone and free
Like a forest in brotherhood
THIS YEARNING IS OURS.