the splattered blood has all but dried
some bodies have mixed with the dust,
others as smoke have risen
the mourners have shrieked and screamed,
until all their tears they have cried
he to whom we entrusted the boat, a dealer turned out to be
he who masqueraded as a messiah, our tormentor out to be
faith, that we beleved was a salve, a dagger turned to be
then why did not the world drown in an angry flood?
why not the fearsome sounds of doomsday curdle our blood?
sixty-one years of independence, worth nothing more than mud!
we have no leisure at the moment
from gatherings of wine and pleasure
this cold blood coursing through our arteries
is nothing but a worthless treasure
oh, revolution, once again!
once again, for good measure!
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