On the pavement of my trampled soul the steps of madmen weave the prints of rude crude words. - Vladimir Mayakovsky

In parade deploying the armies of my pages,
I shall inspect the regiments in line.
Heavy as lead, my verses at attention stand,
ready for death and for immortal fame.

Art must not be concentrated in dead shrines called museums. lt must be spread everywhere – on the streets, in the trams, factories, workshops, and in the workers' homes.

No gray hairs streak my soul,
no grandfatherly fondness there!
I shake the world with the might of my voice,
and walk – handsome,
twentytwoyearold.