If I turn mankind into a clock

And show how the hand of the century moves on,

Will really from our time’s flock

No war take off like the needless upsilon?

Where the human race has contracted piles,

Sitting in armchairs of spring-loaded war for thousands of years,

I am going to tell you that I sense from miles

Away my suprahuman dreams.

I know you are wolf-zealots,

With mine I shake your five gunshots,

But can you really not hear fate’s needle whisper,

That miraculous knitter?

I shall flood with my power, deluge of thought

Existing governments’ buildings,

Incredibly grown Kitezh

For bondmen of the old inanity I shall plot.

And, when the planet Earth chairmen crew

Is tossed to horrific hunger—a green rind,

Every government’s in existence screw

By our driver will be spinned.

And, when a woman with a beard

Tosses a promised stone,

You will say: “This is it,

What we’ve been expecting for aeons.”

O clock of mankind, as you pat,

With my hand cause to move on thoughts!

Let these grow through self-murder of governments and through books—those.

Earth shall be irrevogreat!

Preterglogreat!

Song be its stranglegreat:

I am going to say that the universe is a lamp-black match

On the outcome’s face.

And my thought—like a pick to the latch

On the door, behind it someone who shot himself dead.