The Elder Leadman Poem by Evgeniy Filimonov

The wiry countenance
Of the elder leadman
Had no certain gloom
Yet neither the idealist's vigor
This doyen of industry
It seem'd, had no origin of womb
Further, no affirmation of virtue among him would be found
He would not allow it
Even now, deposed into civility
Commanding production and producing commands
He remained vigilant, and nothing more
Collectively, we observed
The final fate of a man
Molded in Promethean acrimony
Tested in Hephaestean fire
Ultimately maligned in temporal affairs
Among machines strode the man
Now, to produce
Then, to destroy
The elder leadman,
Entitled himself only to servitude
The others, in passing glances
Cast eyes to some final wisps of youth
And a perilous complexion
But his medals, they did not rot
He, the last man of '45
A virile erudite of physicality,
Deaf to our facile commendations
The elder leadman,
his fated passing we mourned with regret
For such a man of action
Undeservingly suffered a bureaucrat's death