|Marina Ivanovna Tsvetaeva (Мари́на Ива́новна Цвета́ева; 1892 - 1941) was a Russian and Soviet poet.|
Those from the factories, from 'Poems', by Marina Tzvetaeva
They stand like working class gloominess
the bodies of factories, blackened with smoke.
Above the soot shook their curls
the skies, moved to compassion.
Towards the smoky orphan-like loneliness of the inn,
smeared with grease, a hat shuffles along.
The last hooter from the outskirts
howls demanding justice.
Hooter! Hooter! Of distraught foreheads
the ultimate scream: "we are still here, us!"
What a sense of death sentence
in this lament of the last hooters!
How bites their pitiful howling -
your satiation of velvet!
What a sense of being buried alive
and dragged to the slaughterhouse.
And God? Smoked till the forehead,
he doesn't intervene! We wait in vain!
Above the cots of the hospitals and the jails
he stands, pinned with tiny nails.
Tormented! Living flesh!
And so it was and will be - till
Embankment for all songs
and of all despairs a nest:
factory! factory! Because it's called
factory this black raise to fly.
To the the despair of the factory's hooter
pay heed - for it calls
the factory. And no intermediary
you will need any longer, when,
when above the last city
will bellow the last hooter.
Translated in English by Literary Joint