Majakovsky could drive the combine harvester
in the huge grain fields
as if it was a masculine revolution:
the assembly line in the complex machinery
gathered the grain and shot it out
in the erect side pipe,
unloading into the waiting wagons.
In the shadow of his dark mountain eyes,
over-looking the fertile fields from the wheelhouse,
a smoking cigarette stiffened his manhood
as a warrior funnel ever-burning.
The industrial hammer and sail
seized the battlefields of nature:
ears of grain flaunting against the sky
were soon to be cut down
by the cutter bar of steal.
“And what for?” Communism and the people.
His starry fists stirred the soft soil.