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Formerly I believed books were made like this: a poet came, lightly opened his lips, and the inspired fool burst into song – if you please! But it seems, before they can launch a song, poets must tramp for days with callused feet, and the sluggish fish of the imagination flounders softly in the slush of the heart. And while, with twittering rhymes, they boil a broth of loves and nightingales, the tongueless street merely writhes for lack of something to shout or say

Vladimir Mayakovsky
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But I, from poetry's skies, plunge into communism, because without it I feel no love.

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On the pavement of my trampled soul the steps of madmen weave the prints of rude crude words.

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