But they do not know that
for years, their blood
mingling with the lifeblood of the earth
falling one after another
the resilient seeds of freedom
will take root and flourish in this soil!
First they will become fresh saplings
like the twig bent while green
then a tree, trees into a forest
such a forest that
can neither be ended by cutting
nor consumed by burning
Songs of comradeship and love
spreading in all four directions
a dense and impassable
forest..

This is the voice of my wounded heart.
of my fury, undaunted by deaths.
it strikes the dark clouds
and opens up the blue of the skies,
profound and deep
this wound is the shackle of servitude
from thousands of years ago,
placed around our necks
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.
There is no limit, no measure to this current.
yet the black hand of death has not
and shall not reach the sacred womb of our mothers.

​We added a hundred to one,
a thousand to a hundred.
And we erupted volcanoes from a single spark.
The fire of our hearts did not die,
Our fury did not cease
and this is why
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 an exuberant flow of lava they wish to block,
and giant icebergs
erected as obstacles before the sun.
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 love..!
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 of your pockets,
Do not bow your head
Today, crying is the easiest thing
and ignoring the conditions of the fight is akin to treason.

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 let yourself go like a dry leaf.
bruise your heart from the depths
and hurl that dark sorrow into the incandescent fire of the struggle.
Do not forget! The eighteenth of May, seventy-three.
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
the healing hand of Lokman.

That essence,
is the water of life, the master of endless 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 daunted, the turncoats, and the traitors,
do not wander
sunk in melancholy.
crying is empty.
There is no use in lamenting,
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.
Those who, with their hearts in their palms,
carefree,
and without hesitation, walked on mined paths.
They poured out their young,
tender,
budding freshness,
gushing out generously.
Just so the sorrow on our faces would disperse.
Those who carried the most crystalline voices
into the deafness of iron, concrete, and stone,
from airless, waterless, and earthless
one-by-one dark solitary cells.
Having drank the sun sip by sip,
they sent springs into our deepest winter.

those who, holding onto the hearts
of the ones who fell before them,
fell as if slipping out of a pair of work overalls
with the same ease,
with the same joy,
for the same passion.

those who, 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,
nor can I forget the mourning of their immortality.
for this is a testimony to immortality.
it is living fully,
intensely and unceasingly, to the hilt.
It is faith:
that gathers joys from pains,
and makes one smile amidst blood and gore,
and burns down palaces and thrones,
and changes destinies.
And that is why it is impossible,
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 of your pockets,
do not bow your head
What silence accumulates is vengeance to be taken.
and the steel of the red star is now at forging heat.
let them say everything is over,
those who refresh their hearts with the nectar of apostasy,
and let them scream our madness at the top of their lungs,
those who doze at the peak of despair.

​With the desperate panic of terrified rabbits,
can the song of revolution be sung?
Can the light be looked at with the eyes of a bat,
and can endless roads be exhausted
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,
that you pour out, note for note
hysterical melodies.

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

First, they were going to organize all minds;
then, suddenly one night,
they would drop fierce red units
onto the mountain peaks by helicopter,
and with this wondrous intellect, they would turn the wheel.
run with the hare, hunt with the hound subtleties.
or throw me off the balcony, go down and catch me.

here you go,
the new products of holiday candies.
The declarations of eternal brotherhood
between specially tamed lions
and sheepish, mangy cats

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 smart-alecks 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 love
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.

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 love