Young Stalin

A time of revolution... of a poet was at hand. Of turbulence and triumph, independent in a land. On Golovinsky Prospect to the main street of Tiflis. Exploits of Djugashvili... Tilipuchui Tavern was a fleese. European fashions, Pushkin gardens, grand hotels. Often singing melodies, he claimed poetry for his swells. A wandering existence of a Bolshevik to be. The perfect crime was hidden... as a mask, a robbery! A poet was becoming... a romantic in his life. With a faith devoted to a struggle... storm and strife! Yet he never wavered, an existence he believed, that he alone was destined... trial and suffering he'd achieve. Liberation-freedom, and the forces of a chain. Death and combat were essential for a lasting thing to gain. The only lasting thing, torn with conflict on the brink, that would mark a struggle... for a cause within a link. There was constant trouble and a lasting reprimand. Return to seminary would not happen, there again. Yet he chose philosophy, he created from the start. A prisoner and in exile, revolution was his art! A new world he would order from Baku to Petrograd. Upon the Russian stage he'd step, perhaps he had gone mad! But he would bear a will... that remained for all his days... forever with a shadow, contradiction in a haze. Chernyshevsky, Dostoevsky, and the devils were his due... A russian revolution was the making of a Coup!