Page:Poems for Workers - ed. Manuel Gomez (1925).djvu/57

 The Five-Point Star

By

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!