English poem
Iv
by Lola Ridge (1873–1941)
We are young. When we rise up with singing roots, (Warm rains washing Gutters of Berlin Where we stamped Rosa... Luxemburg On a night in spring.) Rhythms skurry in our blood. Little nimble rats of song In our feet run crazily And all is dust... we trample... on.
Mad nights when we make ritual (Feet running before the sleuth-light... And the smell of burnt flesh By a flame-ringed hut In Missouri, Sweet as on Rome's pyre....) We make ropes do rigadoons With copper feet that jig on air.... We are the Mob.... Old as song. Tyre knew us And Israel.