Classic Poem

You are hungry for bread,
You are cold as the dead,
You, the fireless poor.
Yet you
Who stare ahead
Envisaging bleak toil,
Hard and unsure,
Are crying for beauty too.
Life gives you one thing, one thing only:
War.
Your weapons are despair
And hate,
And the irons you wore so long,
And famine to share.
You are strong with all that you bore.
You can strike. Strike!
What do you ask for more?