Come, don’t I know that, stumbling against shadows,

Darkness could never have arrived at light?

Do I rate happy hundreds over millions

Of happy men? Am I a monster quite?

Isn’t the Five-Year-Plan a yardstick for me,

Its rise and fall my own? But I don’t quiz

In asking: What shall I do with my thorax

And with what’s slower than inertia is?

The great Soviet gives to the highest passions

In these brave days each one its rightful place,

Yet vainly leaves one vacant for the poet.

When that’s not empty, look for danger’s face.