To my Moscow comrades I leave here a poem that according to my internet researches is carved in some Moscow's Red Square monument or landmark.
I don’t know if it’s translated there. But, it was made by an honorable Brazilian poet, named Rogaciano Leite.
So I did this non official translation.
I hope you like. And please comment. I would love to see it on live. Who knows someday…
Do you have waves for surf in Russia?
THE WORKERS - Rogaciano Leite
A huge wobbly tongue of smoke
Goes licking the infinity – thick and fatigued
It’s the smoke that goes out of the tanned chimney
And turns into clouds through the space above
One would call it an angry serpent
That, crawling back to its lair, blear and menacing,
Rising... rising... like this, from curve to curve,
Would curl the tail on horizon dorsum!
But, no! It’s the hillock factory's chimney
This giant cigar that blows through the ampleness
Generating monsters across the sky
Covering, with fume, that whole neighborhood
In the shop, the anvil's echo is listened
The metal's hiccup and the hammer yell
Like brutal tigers in a frightening duel
The machines roar in the plant’s cellar
It’s the den where, from iron, the tainted dregs
Become a shiny star under the light of a Golden powder!
It’s the work uterus where a son is generated
Which shows his blond face to the arms of the future
Someday, from one idea, a seed sheds
Slips, fertile, joining herself to the soil
Stands up… Flowering… and, there she is, holding on her lap
The fruits that had not - while was inert
Was the light germen, the flower of Thought
Multiplying the action of the small strength
- From a bronze morsel a workshop!
- From a lime mat grew a monument!
Work! Because work is the saint sacrifice.
Shipyard of love that the souls purifies
Where the pollen fecundates, the bread multiplies
And in flowers become the tears that roll over the face
But the working rush is not worth
When the road is filled of injustice and crimes
And instead of sweet fruitage, sublime,
Generates deadly berries of bitter taste
Go and stare how many hero, how many human crane
Under the exhaustive dust and the tiring heat
The iron's muscles, the sturdy appearance
Mixing the own sweat to its quotidian meal
Its force is a miracle! The blessed redemption!
Its stiff arm is the energic lever
The miraculous chisel, the unlocking wrench
The Progress kingdom where the greatness lives
Without this hero's feet the Evolution doesn’t goes ahead!
Without the mothers of this brave, the nation doesn’t grow!
The industry production fails! The field does not flourishes!
The commerce decays! The exportation scatters!
However, take a good look! These heroes without a name,
Doomed animals that the gold still enslaves
Dragging – how unfair! – the treasure's carriage
Bound to sickness, to hunger, to pain!
How many imponent building of value sumptuary
Raised to the sky, set on infinity
Unconcerned with the hurt, Unconcerned with the scream
Of disgrace that invades the shacks of the working men
By day, is the labour! Exposed to sun and rain!
By night, is the infection of a dark hut
Where soon one daughter will become impure
And a starving woman will become a widow
Not even sleep rests the tired eyelids!
Milk is the humidity of the fetid shelter!
Bread is scarce and hard! Clothes are scraps!
And the boot is the storehouse of the dirt streets!
There, the medicine is a strange prodigy!
Never a book will be opened to smiles of hope
To fill, with vivacity, the eyes of the child
Pointing her the firmament... Showing one vestige!
Everything is darkness and unbelief! The own God is sad
Hearing the craving of these human hearts
And the Law - happy woman who sleeps for so long
Does not wake up to see how much injustice exists.
Where is this love which the priests preach?
Where are these laws which the Parliament prints?
The Code can’t open its breast to crime,
Defaming the modesty which the Courts segregate!
Observe the red flame escaping from the furnace
Look at the fume that slides by the sides of the chimney
This is the blood... Is the sweat of the poor who agonizes
While the law dozes off over silk sofas
What is made of this hero? No one knows where he comes from!
The power never entered through his roof straw
Only, the ailing wife, the son illiterate
And, there in the cabarets, – the daughter... who was virgin!
There is a legion of these incredulous martyres
In every street end, in each poor neighborhood!
It’s too much disgrace in a so noble country
Which had a Tolstoy and gave a Lenin
Will be necessary the blood tainting the spear?
And the corpses of popular rotting on the corners?
Don’t you see, oh Law, thy own daughters?
Then, die cruel mother, under the wrath of revenge!
But I can feel that the time is coming
When the voice of the unfortunate will be free – and loud!
Because I know that this God who sings in the palaces
Is the same God who cries in the slum quarters
Lots of laughs inside here! Lots of shouts outside there!
How many berths made of silk! How many feet in awful conditions!
Since men don’t see these false decrees
Tear thy mantle, Christ! Protects the underdog wretches!
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