Message of a Martyr
Your pencil aimed such that the output was the hearth
and in the earth among my concerns is the rising air
Your pencil aimed, O jab [piqure], and not I
from murder feigned, nor I a runaway
I, from my blood, my land greens and enlivens
And a generation grows up familiar with the concern as a
promise
And grows arms from every shore
grows worries and develops wings
They take out mortgages in order to remain in their home land
In all quarters every direction it freezes
I am the earth my love where I used to stay
Theres is nostalgia stuck to love eternal
I do not mind waking at dawn staggering
I do not mind destroying the thundering