How long have the poison-bards of powerFlayed our living soulsO men of words
How long have they pierced our heartsAnd stabbed our pages full of holesIn vain
How long, despite the censor, did we speakClothed only in our bloodSurrounded by stupidity
How long must we leave the jungleFor this exiled wood, this distant warSad soldiers, on a cruel road
In spite of all we standOur pens like arrows in our handsSad singers, captive from afar
Calm or aflame, we tell the truthFrom exile, we write realityO poets, is flight our fate?
As a bird slips the fowler’s snareAnd soars into the airAs a priest fleeing sin becomes a saint
So it is better that we be goneBefore we are undoneWriters! Any road is better than none