Durutti

The bullet shall not harry him again,

Who with pacific men,

The legions in their windrows laid,

Awaits the clod, the spade.

But we who keep a quiet bed

May be the dead,

If breathing be the difference;

Or lights the sense

To less than candles in a tomb

Or lanterns on a wagonboom

That throw a jolted eye of light

On the blind night.

The world's so small that it's become the stake

For those who wake.

And we know-who still use the air-

What's planted there:

Not broken days, not chunks of steel, not mud-

But sun-warmed blood. . .

Scythe, reaper, hammer, plow,

Are ready now