Pen and Shears
Helena Frank translation
My tailor’s shears I scornèd then; I strove for something higher: To edit news—live by the pen— The pen that shall not tire!
The pen, that was my humble slave, Has now enslaved its master; And fast as flows its Midas-wave, My rebel tears flow faster.
The world I clad once, tailor-hired, Whilst I in tatters quakèd, Today, you see me well attired, Who lets the world go naked.
What human soul, how’er oppressed, Can feel my chained soul’s yearning! A monster woe lies in my breast, In voiceless anguish burning.
Oh, swing ajar the shop door, do! I’ll bear as ne’er I bore it. My blood!... you sweatshop leeches, you!... Now less I’ll blame you for it.
I’ll stitch as ne’er in former years; I’ll drive the mad wheel faster; Slave will I be but to the shears; The pen shall know its master!