On The Fifth Day Of A Hunger Strike

My brothers,

Forgive me if I'm unable to say

honestly and straightforwardly

all that I would like to say to you

I'm drunk, my head is light, it spins,

not from raki

but from hunger.

My brothers,

I'm European, I'm Asian, I'm American,

In this month of May

I'm not in jail or on a hunger strike,

But lying at night in a meadow

With your eyes as near to mine as the stars

And your hands in mine as a single hand

like the hand of my mother

like the hand of my helpmate

like the hand of life.

My brothers,

You, at least, have never abandoned me,

Not me or my country or my people.

I know that you love me and love what's ours

As I love you and love what's yours.

And for this

I thank you, my brothers,

I thank you.

My brothers,

I have no intention of dying.

And if I am killed

I know

I'll go on living

in your thoughts.

I'll live in the lines of Aragon-

in every line that describes

the coming of beautiful days-

And in the pigeons of Picasso,

And in the folksongs of Robson...

And more beautiful than anything else

more triumphant than anything else

I'll live in the jubilant laughter

of a comrade on strike day

in the port of Marseilles.

My brothers,

Since you really wish me to talk again,

I'm so happy, so happy,

that I spurt the words out!