If I die, yes, many Would weep: not just kin But friends from the city long left- Schoolmates, officemates, Intellectuals fond of poems. But most of all, the farmers And workers who confided in me The bitter history of their lives.   Yes, I would be glad if they come To my burial and mourning, If they fill the streets At the final march, where my casket Would be wrapped in the red banner With the sickle and hammer or three stars. Greater would be my joy if they start to ask: "For whom, why did he give his life?"   Still it would not make much difference If I fall and succumb among rubbish, To be interred by worm and weed Without trace, without name. It is enough that the beloved masses awake: Break from this rotting prison! Build a nation of light, yes! Light from within, if I die.