Dear publishers, I here surrender
To feelings new and opportune.
I'm learning how in verse to render
Old Russia reared as a commune.
What matter if in words that falter
My pencil whispered to the page
And, half-awake, my heart sang hoarsely,
Not fathoming our joyous age?
With the perception of a poet
You'll read my thoughts, nor find it strange
That in the land of Soviet power
The language people write should change.
My bold endeavour you'll acknowledge
And not in mockery engage
Simply because in words that falter
My pencil whispered to the page.