Machnamh
Ní mise a chuir na pléascáin ar fáilNá na smaointe ach oiread leis sin,
Sibhse a shatail le bhur sála iarainn
ar an nead seangán
agus as an talamh bhrúite
d'eascair díoltas.
Sibhse a leag an choirceog
Le bhur smachtín
Glór na mbeach ar a dteitheadh
Mar bhuama ar fud na bhfud
Dearg-sceimhle oraibh
Nuair a bhuail an druma caithréimeach
I gcroí na ndaoine
Mheas sibhse gur duine a bhí ann: dhírigh
bhur ngunnaí air - macalla réabhlóideach ó gach aird
Reflection
I did not supply the explosives
Nor ideas for that matter
It was you who trod with iron heels
Upon the anthill
And from the trampled earth
Sprouted the ideas of vengeance
It was you who struck the beehive
With your lathi
The sound of the scattering bees
Exploded in your shaken facade
Blotched red with fear
When the victory drum started beating
In the heart of the masses
You mistook it for a person and trained your guns
Revolution echoed from all horizons.
