In trouble and in grief beauty remains,
They stone it, rape it, tear it,
Through tears it smiles,
Provoking in the executioner still greater rage.

Not to yield to untruth,
Not to die, to survive —
Means to win,
To rip out the sting of imperialism by the root,
Having held back evil, and to save others.

The vampire inflates, goes out of himself,
Craves the bloody glory of a gopnik.
He will burst from “velichiye,” and disarm himself,
Splashing out a peace they never even knew.