Words —
even the finest —
turn into litter,
wearing threadbare
with use and barter.
Today
I want to infuse
new glitter
into the most glorious of words:
PARTY.
Individual—
what can he mean
in life?
His voice
sounds fainter
than a needle dropping.
Who hears him?
Only, perhaps,
his wife,
and then if she's near
and not out shopping.
A Party's
a raging
single-voiced storm
compressed
out of voices
weak and thin.
The enemy strongholds
burst with its roar
like eardrums
when cannon
begin their din.
One man alone
feels down and out.
One man alone
won't make weather.
Any old bully
can knock him about—
even weaklings
if two together.
But when
we midgets
in a Party stand—
surrender,
enemy,
fade
out of sight!
A Party's
a million-fingered hand
clenched
into one fist
of shattering might.
What's an individual?
No earthly good.
One man,
even the most important of all,
can't raise a ten-yard log of wood,
to say nothing
of a house
ten stories tall.
A Party means millions
of arms,
brains
eyes
linked
and acting together.
In a Party
we'll rear our projects to the skies,
upholding and helping
one another.
The Party's
the compass
that keeps us on course,
the backbone
of the whole working class.
The Party
embodies
the immortality of our cause,
our faith
that will never
fail or pass.
Yesterday an underling,
today
whole empires I'm uncharting.
The brain,
the strength,
the glory of its class,
that's what it is,
our Party.
Lenin
and the Party
are brother-twins.
Who'll say
which means more
Vladimir Ilyich Lenin
to History, their mother?
Lenin
and the Party
are the closest kin;
name one
and you can't but imply
the other.

V. Mayakovsky

English version from https://mayday.leftword.com/attachments/Lenin-150-1.pdf