METROPOLIS: BOLSHEVIK SUPER-POEM IN 5 CANTOS
IV

Among copses of silence
darkness licks the blood of dusk.
Fallen stars,
they are dead birds
in the dreamless water
of the mirror.

And the resounding
artilleries of the Atlantic
waned,
finally,
in the distance.

                                Over the rigging of autumn,
                                a nocturnal wind blows:
                                it is the wind of Russia,
                                of the great tragedies,
and the garden,
yellow,
founders in shadow.
Her recollection, sudden,
it crackles in muted interiors.

                                Her golden words
                                sift in my memory.

Rivers of blue shirts
overflow the floodgates of industrial plants,
and agitator trees
gesticulate their discourses on the sidewalk.
The strikers fling
insults and blows with stones,
and life, it is a tumultuous
conversion to the left.

On the edges of the pillow,
night, it is a precipice;
and insomnia,
it has remained rummaging in my brain.

From whom are those voices
that float in shadow?

                                And these trains that howl
                                to devastated horizons.

                                The soldiers
                                will spend this night in the inferno.

My God!
And from all this disaster
only a few white
pieces
of her recollection,
they have kept me within her hands.