Here by us the deepest words
they get old like the dresses,
but I want to force a great word
to shine again, the word Party.
A man alone, close in himself,
in what can be useful? Whoever
will listen to him? Perhaps his wife,
and not always, not in public,
perhaps only in their intimacy.
The Party is a hurricane
full of feeble and faint voices
and at its gusts
the fortalices of the enemy blow up,
like eardrums at the thunder of the guns.
The misfortune is on the man when he is alone.
The bad luck is in the heart of the solitary man.
The man alone is easy prey
of all the powerful figures
and even of the weak ones provided they get in two.
But if in the Party
all the weak men meet,
surrender, enemy, die and lie!
The Party is a hand
with million fingers,
closed in on only one threating fist.
The isolated man doesn’t count,
even if he is strong
he is not able to lift a simply beam,
neither a five storied house.
But with the Party,
by supporting and standing up each other,
we will build till the heaven.
The Party is the backbon of the working class.
The Party is the immortality of our work.
The Party is the only thing, that doesn’t betray.
Today I am an arm salesclerk,
I will cancel the reigns from the paper.
Brain and exertion,
vigour and glory of the class:
that is the Party.
The Party and Lenin are twin brothers.
Who is whorter in front of History?
We say Lenin and we mean the Party,
We say Party and we mean Lenin.