The Fruits of It All

As time and pressure turn carbon to diamond,
so our cities have been forged.
Through smoke and grit, and strife and war,
Their crackle of electricity was born.

The throb,
the pulse,
the factory siren.
The defeaning,
distorted roar.

Words of boundless hope and love and humour,
and furious ones that have torn.
From terraces, flats
and from the streets,
from offices, yards and shopfloors.

From wave on wave
of raw then furnaced
struggle,
and anger,
has our expression been born.

Our places writhe
with energy and life,
in every possible way.
And for every swing of the axe they take,
we stand back up again.

Our fire, our joy, our noise.
Our state´s of ecstacy.
Our blood, our sweat our laughter.
Always delivered,
stood firmly on our feet.

Toil, disease.
Addiction, death.
The crunching baton blow.
The winds of change, and tides of pain,
serve only to swell our seething flow.

The irrepressible urge to move forward,
to wrench ourselves from those chains,
and the products of this fight´s searing heat
will never be cooled,
and never be tamed.

Photogrpah from The Mayakovsky Musuem, Moscow.

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