My hands cut off, my eyes torn out,
My life blood seeps into the ground,
The tyrant laughs his drunken laugh,
As he strikes me a mortal wound.
All that I ever wrote is burnt,
The pages shred and cast away,
The ashes scatter with the wind,
As owls hoot and donkeys bray.
I know my life long work is lost,
To oblivion my memory sent,
And yet, thinking of days to come,
I die with my heart content.
The smouldering ashes of my words,
With the breeze will fly on wings,
And one day shall cover the hearth,
Of commoners as well as of kings.
Or else drifting down the river,
They shall mingle with the sea,
And reach every unknown shore,
Where I could myself never be.
If buried deep within the soil,
They will burst forth with the rain,
The novel crop will sprout and grow,
My death would then be not in vain.
Volcanoes hidden in my words,
Whatever form that they might take,
Shall some day spew and explode,
Destroy and then the world remake.
And then with nowhere to retreat,
To its death will tyranny flee,
That is the day when with my words,
Resurrected I shall also be.
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