“Art—that's a bourgeois invention!” …
“Art—for enjoyment only!” …
“Counter-revolution—art!” …
Thus are yelling cripples on the highway,—
Like reptiles …

Cry of a slave—'tis enjoyment his?
Creative pain—bourgeoisie's relish?
Counter-revolution—to aspire to freedom? …
Ay, foolish, trice foolish—whoever thinks so!

How then—cannot suffering and pain
be embraced by art?
Cannot aspiration of a down-trodden class
be introduced in a work of art?
And who's he that hates such art?
—Beast!

Oh, ye bards of a down-trodden class!
Oh, ye poets, sensitive troubadours,—
Awake!… Into masses! …
Tear away the blind—background for whimsical ego—
And strike thunder like Eolian strings
And call out the life, and call out tornadoes…
Be like wind that disperses clouds,—
Let the strings rebound, let the trumpets thunder!