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The Hangmans Great Hands

 And all that is this day.
The boy with cap slung over what had been a face.
Somehow the cop will sleep tonight, will make love to his wife.
Anger won't help.
I was born angry.
Angry that my father was being burnt alive in the mills; Angry that none of us knew anything but filth, and poverty.
Angry because I was that very one somebody was supposed To be fighting for Turn him over; take a good look at his face.
Somebody is going to see that face for a long time.
I wash his hands that in the brightness they will shine.
We have a parent called the earth.
To be these buds and trees; this tameless bird Within the ground; this season's act upon the fields of Man.
To be equal to the littlest thing alive, While all the swarming stars move silent through The merest flower .
but the fog of guns.
The face with all the draining future left blank.
Those smug saints, whether of church or Stalin, Can get off the back of my people, and stay off.
Somebody is supposed to be fighting for somebody.
And Lenin is terribly silent, terribly silent and dead.

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