The Twelve

 III 
Our sons have gone 
to serve the Reds 
to serve the Reds 
to risk their heads! 

O bitter,bitter pain, 
Sweet living! 
A torn overcoat 
an Austrian gun! 

-To get the bourgeosie 
We'll start a fire 
a worldwide fire, and drench it 
in blood- 
The good Lord bless us! 


-O you bitter bitterness, 
boring boredom, 
deadly boredom.
 

This is how I will 
spend my time.
 

This is how I will 
scratch my head, 

munch on seeds, 
some sunflower seeds, 

play with my knife 
play with my knife.
 

You bourgeosie, fly as a sparrow! 
I'll drink your blood, 

your warm blood, for love, 
for dark-eyed love.
 

God, let this soul, your servant, 
rest in peace.
 

Such boredom! 


XII 
.
.
.
 On they march with sovereign tread.
.
.
 
‘Who else goes there? Come out! I said 
come out!’ It is the wind and the red 
flag plunging gaily at their head.
 

The frozen snow-drift looms in front.
 
‘Who’s in the drift! Come out! Come here!’ 
There’s only the homeless mongrel runt 
limping wretchedly in the rear .
.
.
 

‘You mangy beast, out of the way 
before you taste my bayonet.
 
Old mongrel world, clear off I say! 
I’ll have your hide to sole my boot! 

The shivering cur, the mongrel cur 
bares his teeth like a hungry wolf, 
droops his tail, but does not stir .
.
.
 
‘Hey answer, you there, show yourself.
’ 

‘Who’s that waving the red flag?’ 
‘Try and see! It’s as dark as the tomb!’ 
‘Who’s that moving at a jog 
trot, keeping to the back-street gloom?’ 

‘Don’t you worry ~ I’ll catch you yet; 
better surrender to me alive!’ 
‘Come out, comrade, or you’ll regret 
it ~ we’ll fire when I’ve counted five!’ 

Crack ~ crack ~ crack! But only the echo 
answers from among the eaves .
.
.
 
The blizzard splits his seams, the snow 
laughs wildly up the wirlwind’s sleeve .
.
.
 

Crack ~ crack ~ crack! 
Crack ~ crack ~ crack! 
.
.
.
 So they march with sovereign tread .
.
.
 
Behind them limps the hungry dog, 
and wrapped in wild snow at their head 
carrying a blood-red flag ~ 
soft-footed where the blizzard swirls, 
invulnerable where bullets crossed ~ 
crowned with a crown of snowflake pearls, 
a flowery diadem of frost, 
ahead of them goes Jesus Christ.

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