You had played the same role over and over In the theatre of revolt: A worker, oppressed, exploited, Who awakens and leads in crushing the enemy. The end had always been rousing: the hammer, The sickle, the PSR and the gun overhead, The red flags waving, Your fist raised forward, And your eyes gleaming In victory As the International Thunders. It had always been that: a revolutionary, in the theatre And eventually in the battlefield, Lugging a knapsack, gun in hand, A leader of the armed struggle And mass movement in the countryside. The former role became your life. How could they have differed? You took a single stand, As a character in plays And as a comrade who cleared a path In the revolutionary struggle. It had always been that: even your murder By the enemy had long been acted out, Even the grieving over your body Had been replaced by the fire of revolt. Look: all of us, on whom your smile Had shone, raise our fists As the International thunders In the heart of the people.   (E.P.)