Who is flying the flag?You say it is the wind. I say it is the hand. But history says it is both.
When I consider my country's history, a great mother appears before me, leading me, by my hand
When I consider the plight of my nation, millions of wingless birds confront me imploring me to extend my strong hand of help.
Here, the children are carrying the weight of the whole earth on their slender necks.
Friend, I cannot bear to see your humiliating wounds, and I am pained to see that your soul does not rebel. The world is hurtling into the phase of Gorilla, into the sinewy period of the mighty ancestor, do not linger in the back pages of history.
Tell me - are you thirsty? I shall place before you a whole ocean. But you are not thirty. You never seem to have any thirst for anything, and that is why I feel wretched and, that is the tomb of all my dreams. You have decided to end your journey by becoming the priest of false of gods that is why I burst out into flames of anger.
Where are those gods, you fool, who can grant you boons except your own hand - the magnificent edifice raised by the Gorilla over ages, the fulcrum of human civilisation.
If you look into a mirror you see only yourself, but if you look into the window you see the people, do not imagine that all your worlds are in the grass that you eat. To him who always bends his head, the stars in the heavens are not visible; his chest will not expand and the sun will never rise in his brain. Life is not given to you to know how to die, it is given to you to determine how to live; it may be easy to escape from the clutches of grief and it is not so easy to escape from the clutches of pleasure.
Perhaps you thought you could fan out such fierce summer with a tiny fan. But one who is born from the womb of tempests cannot remain hidden behind a little bush. The giant which enshrines in itself all the primeval forces of action finds its medium on the wide canvas ofmankind- come out into the open as the mighty inheritor of Gorilla who throbs in your blood.
The heart is a big human valley, into which courage walks like the pure angel of morning. it is not how many miles but how many martyrs our movement has marched forward, measure.
Catch, I throw my heart to you, Comrade!