LAMENT FOR MISSING COMRADES
Call back the dead! My hero friends of old
Who fled their place in our unequal war
And sank in private Iife; those who grew cold
To our endeavour, chilled by grief or fear,
Too old to bear, at twenty-five, or nine,
The forceful cutting winds that howl along
Our promontory, anxious to realign
With brutish wage-slave masters seeming strong.
"But Trotsky led to Stalin!" Self-effacement!
No fine disinterested search for truth
But stricken-hearted knowing self-abasement
Beside the poisoned tree still bearing fruit.
Soul wrecked, they make their peace, poor contrite braves:
They praise the masters, they, who cried "Free the slaves! "