Red Flag
This is no time for tears, no place for mournful poses;
We have a trust to fill before our brief day closes.
A hundred thousand Saccos and Vanzettis starkly die
Whose agonizing arms accuse the stormy, bloodied sky.
On battlefields, in dismal mills and dank, dark mines;
In fetid tenements and on brave, far-flung picket-lines
Whence comes the hue that stains the workers' flag so red?
The rich have dyed it deep with the blood of our slaughtered dead;
It is they who have sown the tempest, they who have made it war.
Our children shall win to freedom; theirs shall pay the score.
We have a trust to fill before our brief day closes.
A hundred thousand Saccos and Vanzettis starkly die
Whose agonizing arms accuse the stormy, bloodied sky.
On battlefields, in dismal mills and dank, dark mines;
In fetid tenements and on brave, far-flung picket-lines
Whence comes the hue that stains the workers' flag so red?
The rich have dyed it deep with the blood of our slaughtered dead;
It is they who have sown the tempest, they who have made it war.
Our children shall win to freedom; theirs shall pay the score.
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