Dank Is the fog that dogs our steps,
The mist that twists in siren shapes,
Edging us on to ledges him
Where Death, expectant, grimly gapes.
Baleful the light, though beautiful,
That leads to those seductive arms
Whose clasp is death and burial
Beneat the bullfrog's late alarms.
Weary of too much travelling,
Wary of leaders who mislead,
We know not how to stay nor start,
Nor to go back, nor to proceed.
Sudden upon the blood stained sky,
Bright like a bayonet afar,
Cleaving the dark, the doubt, the death,
Rises the pilot Five Point Star.
Russia, salute! Not to your lands,
But to your toiling working class
Who broke the spears of all the Czars
Upon their breasts, that we might pass
From haunted days, and hunted ways.
(Poor harried slaves, who breath by stealth!)
Through Revolution's iron gates
To the Industrial Commonwealth!