The Arctic wind impales us without halt
and in our wounds the devil himself leers.
The star above the gulag burns like salt
until we lose all track of months and years.

And yet we sigh again the wry insult
we let slip into comrade Stalin’s ears.
We sigh until we sigh it by default
and wrinkles are the riverbeds of tears.

Leo Yankevich

http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/red-star-1933/