No.3129
No lord in the heavens made this cosmos,
No worldly lord the prosperity of humankind.
The cosmos is an eternal evolution of the material,
This material shaped for mankind's use by many a laborer.
The work of your hands, laborer, was mankind's yesterday.
On your hands also rests tomorrow.
When the temple of Solomon was being built by an army of laboring
Slaves, meanwhile Solomon was inside
His palace, solving the quarrels of wives.
When the nobleman in France was cursing his failed expedition to
The Russian land, thousands of wives wept for their fallen husbands.
The work of your hands, laborer,
Were the treasures of the lords,
But inside your fist now grows a different kind of tomorrow.
Your hands built the factories and the mines of the land.
Where from dawn to dusk you labor on,
Watch the treasures get carried away.
But if your hands stops laboring, the chimneys go cold,
The machines standing as idle as those who you labor for.
The work of your hands, laborer,
Are the treasures of the lords,
And only your hands can act to bring forth justice.
But for the exploiter,
You alone are not enough, for he will always be hunting on.
And if he meets resistance, he'll point his guns at your brothers.
And when you rise against injustice,
You'll quickly find out,
The exploiter is not just a leech but also a murderer.
Your hands once build the tombs of the Pharaohs.
Yet to be dug is the grave for the exploiters of this entire world.
Inside your fist lies a seed to your freedom eternal.
And it'll once grow into a forest that covers out all injustices.
No.3130
The ghosts of white power again
Fat in front of me.
Huge dreams of freedom again
Excites me to the song.
Those call, command, and demand
A thousand painful moods.
Anger, love phrases,
Oh, listen to the people and the land.
Oh, listen to the song internationally,
Mink 'oppression gives birth,
Like his cold shackles
The Red Prisoner is now glaring.
They shackle them, press and weigh,
The grooves of anger they eat on the forehead.
Do you see the whip's line,
It blows and beats in every air.
And you, brethren of strange lands,
The sound of blood rings there too.
If you know the strange axes
There are broken doors, oh.
You hear when my song sounds,
The Red Prisoner is singing this.
As true as brotherhood lives,
The axles to be removed are as follows.
No.3131
>>3129Kätten työtä · Kristiina Halkola
Work of Many Hands · Kristiina Halkola
>>3130Punavangin Laulu · Arja Saijonmaa
Song of the Red Prisoner · Arja Saijonmaa