Youth Must Refrain From Ungrateful Questioning Of

I Have Sworn Before A Picture Of The Old And Mourned Comrade Stalin That I Won’t Rest Until I See These Capitalist Octopuses Annihilated.

In Fact, If Christ Himself Stood In My Way, I, Like Nietzsche, Would Not Hesitate To Squish Him Like A Worm.

And Yet Every So Often, The Heart Of America, Shuddering With Indignation, Sends A Nervous Spasm Through The Gentle Back Of The Andes, And Tumultuous Shock Waves Assault The Surface Of The Land. Three Times The Cuppola Of Proud Santo Domingo Has Collapsed From On High To The Rhythm Of Broken Bones And Its Worn Walls Have Opened And Fallen Too. But The Foundations They Rest On Are Unmoved, The Great Blocks Of The Temple Of The Sun Exhibit Their Gray Stone Indifferently; However Colossal The Disaster Befalling Its Oppressor, Not One Of Its Huge Rocks Shifts From Its Place.

Its Tall Chimneys Throw Up Black Smoke, Impregnating Everything With Soot, And The Miners' Faces As They Traveled The Streets Were Also Imbued With That Ancient Melancholy Of Smoke, Unifying Everything With Its Grayish Monotones, A Perfect Coupling With The Gray Mountain Days.

Real Revolutionaries Adorn Themselves On The Inside, Not On The Surface.