Our history did not begin with the birth of Christ

Our footprints are in ancient times

Our roots are beyond history, deep within

Neither our past nor our present is a mystery

Every aspect of us is clear, we have no secrets from anyone

We have no sacredness other than humanity and nature...

This is the voice of my wounded heart.
of my fury, undaunted by deaths.
it strikes the dark clouds and
opens the deep, deep
blue of the skies
this wound is the shackle of servitude
from thousands of years ago,
placed around our necks
it is in the bird with broken wings,
in the bud torn before blooming,
and in the crestfallen child
whose blue dreams have been stolen.

We flowed, river by river
We overflowed, sea by sea
Our most delicate, tender ones met with indescribable pain.
the current is beyond measure.
yet the black hand of death has not
and shall not reach the sacred womb of our mothers.

One to a hundred
A hundred to a thousand we multiplied.
and we tore volcanoes from a single spark
The fire of our hearts did not die,
Our fury did not cease
and so it is
In the vise of incurable fears
Hearts scream upon scream, a frenzied panic,
and with an unquenchable thirst
The knives of tyranny roam
Across the four corners of the earth.

It is a surging lava flow they seek to stem,
and great icebergs
Set before the sun as obstacles.
It is prison cells,
It is torture,
Exiles,
Death and betrayal imposed,
so we may not break free from the shackle
around our necks.

It is futile, my beloved..!
Futile, the efforts of paper tigers
in the rabid thrashing of the approaching end
the tyrants of oppression
their hands in blood,
their feet at the lime's edge, the last bite of savagery.

Take your hands out from your lap
Do not bow your head
Today, crying is the easiest thing and
to ignore the terms of struggle is equal to betrayal.

Do not let this silence deceive you
it is the sharpening swords of the final blow
in the heart of silence
and the gleam of our immortal song
is the inexhaustible, mighty breath
in torture chambers, on gallows
and in treacherous ambushes.
inseminated with blood into the dark womb of death.

Do not abandon yourself like a dry leaf
bruise your heart from the depths
and fling that black sorrow into the white-hot fire of struggle.
Do not forget! the seventy-three, the eighteenth of May.
remember and learn from it
even when alone, to fight and to win
do not say its impossible!
do not say the black wall of tyranny cannot fall
believe in that essence,
that essence which has overcome so many tyrannies,
the one and only remedy for a thousand ills

That essence,
the water of immortality, the master of infinite joy.
listen to its voice,
sharpen your hatred anew
and like a keen guillotine, pounce upon the neck of tyranny.
then look.
you will see it was no empty dream,
that for which we die.

time is short,
time is pressing,
you know too that we are at a crossroads
now.
amidst the despondent, the turncoats, and the traitors
do not wander
sunk in melancholy.
crying is empty.
no use in any lamentation
and not in vain is all this struggle and effort.
it is the command of a love, that seeks fulfillment.
it is a passion for which poisons are drunk.
a passion that is the blue dream of children.
the final picture of the world, unchained and without walls.

a passion for which we have given so many lives.
they, their hearts in their palms,
carefree,
and without hesitation walked on mined roads.
young,
tender,
they poured out their bud-like freshness
gushing, generously.
so the sorrow upon our faces might scatter.
they, who carried the most crystalline voices
into the deafness of iron, concrete, and stone,
from airless, waterless, and earthless
pitch-black solitary cells.
they drank the sun sip by sip,
sent springs to our deepest winter.

they, holding on to the hearts
of those who fell before them,
fell as slipping out of a work overall,
with the same ease,
with the same joy,
for the same passion.

they, at the very end of all remedies,
are a luminous road reaching to the skies.
on the unbending spearheads of our struggle,
where patience cracks stone,
in the eyes of fire,
in the underground waters they are.

and they,
I cannot describe,
and I cannot forget the mourning of immortality.
for this is a testimony to immortality.
it is living fully,
intensely and unceasingly, to the hilt.
this is faith,
that gathers joys from pain
and makes one laugh bathed in blood,
and burns palaces and thrones,
and changes fates,
and so it is, it cannot be otherwise
futile is tyranny's effort
it will, absolutely and certainly, be realized
the dream of brotherhood for all humanity.

take your hands out from your lap
do not bow your neck
there are revenges to be taken, stored up by silence.
and the steel of the red star is now at forging heat.
let them say everything is over,
those who soothe their hearts with the nectar of betrayal
and let them shout out loud our madness.
those who perch on the summit of despair.

with the mortal panic of fright-stricken rabbits,
can the song of revolution be sung?
can one look at the light with bat's eyes?
and can long, long roads be traveled
without bodies burning with the fire of hearts?
do not tire your jaws in vain.
it is true, sirs, it is true
what you say
yes, a thousand times
infinitely recorded is our mad madness.

yet, it is the echo rising from the depths
of an old swamp song,
in the gray murkiness of the day,
set to red decors and new instruments,
note for note, the show you put on
hysterical melodies.

is there need to explain?
the tale is known to all
that tale, that is a three-dimensional betrayal.

first, they would organize all minds,
then, one night suddenly
they would land the fierce red units
by helicopter on the mountain peaks,
and with this brilliant scheme, turn the wheel.
rabbit-run, greyhound-chase subtleties.
or throw me off from the balcony, then catch me below.

here you are,
the new products of holiday confections
the declarations of eternal brotherhood
between sheepish, mangy cats
and lions disciplined in the abstract.

let your ears ring.
here, take your new fonts of wisdom,
for we are mad.
we do not know their worth, we squander such values.

O you who wave spoons at the table of denial!
you heralds of disaster, merchants of emotion!
you sharp-minded ones who start everything with yourselves
and end everything with yourselves.
how quickly you dead-ended the red routes.
how quickly you forgot the red oaths.
but they have not forgotten,
the walls of the city of Eiffel
and now the struggle stencils on the wall
are searching for you.
where are you?
has your heart stopped, or is it your watch?

once more, herds of turncoats
once more, cowardly wayfarers.
carve it deep into your brains
and after our corpses,
write it in large fonts on your exposure bulletins
yes, we are unthinkably mad.
at least as much as the masters of that sacred passion.
and we are willing fedayeen of this ill-fated passion.

one wise one is enough for us, my beloved
one wise one is enough.
one wise one who did not seek
the terms of struggle in archive dust,
one wise one who made the book a whetstone for his sword,
poured it page by page into gunpowder,
into bullets...
and sang the song of revolution through barrels.
one wise one from whom madness
is a priceless inheritance to us.

but do not say but
do not sigh.
that essence will resolve
all the blind knots in your mind.
this is a road of fire woven with death traps.
not every heart can endure
and not every mind is fit to advance on this road.
traitors, turncoats will surely emerge
and do not forget, at any moment
betrayal can sprout right beside you.

in short, yesterday, today, and tomorrow.
the most dangerous of enemies
and the most powerful
is hidden within us.
as that great master said,
now is the time to bomb the bourgeois headquarters.
so it is, my beloved.
come now, do not make me say more.
this is the last call to you.
kindle the spark in your heart,
be ready for the struggle.