Joseph S. Josephides
We are the reapers of the liberty,
the plain of Messara is our yard, our school.
Our sweat earns for us our breathing,
our axes fear no canon to gain bread fairly.
We march, as one soul, standstill neck, our eyes
watch-towers, we’re as protecting lions of Knossos.
We march singing the victory in sistro’s rhythm,
the scythes over our shoulders, hands and wings
with lutes and violins, larynx of stentorian a voice,
we march towards death, singing for the life.
We march to free the slaves from the jail of cowards,
in the front side of the moon, so that you trust us,
that we are not making poisons in the unseen side.
We acquire honest weapons, scythes and axes.
Which cunning one would disarm our soul and dare
to chain us in golden fetters and call us ‘master’?
We march for the humble bread, the holy communion,
the oxygen of Psiloritis, the echo of our wise who say:
‘Our bread means freedom, our blood is our sweat
for sowing, for the few a harmless man needs to live,
for filling our house with wheat; the air is our song.’
So, come to march - the lion of Knossos protects us -
let us walk and sing for the truth and harvest: ten saints
we have, a hundred of reapers, a thousand of contestants.
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