Machines are laughing in my face, I'm opening windows in the soul. Perhaps, I was hanged in disgrace... And, may be, upon the telegraph pole. Machines do not throw a shadow. ...Ungrateful children of the human race... I'll shelter myself under a barrow. Machines are laughing in my face. We divinified town lands. This city had not been heaven-born, Underground giants of our by-ends. Our Temple, be never lorn! But by means of secret mutations (It sticks now out a mile), Emiting a knack of electrovibrations By the irresistible smile, The Sunny Son will see the light. The Sunny Son will see his light.