The Art of Marxism: poetry

I Come and Stand at Every Door

by Nāzım Hikmet Ran

I come and stand at every door

But no one hears my silent tread

I knock and yet remain unseen

For I am dead, for I am dead.


I'm only seven although I died

In Hiroshima long ago

I'm seven now as I was then

When children die they do not grow.


My hair was scorched by swirling flame

My eyes grew dim, my eyes grew blind

Death came and turned my bones to dust

And that was scattered by the wind.


I need no fruit, I need no rice I

need no sweet, nor even bread

I ask for nothing for myself

For I am dead, for I am dead.


All that I ask is that for peace

You fight today, you fight today

So that the children of this world

May live and grow and laugh and play.