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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