And if sunshine shall knock on my door tomorrow, I would carry the wounds and follow the light of morning, till I get healed there is no way back home, I shall cross a river of bloods and pass through the road of soldiers, for may I taste the bitterness in freedom and smell victory in the souls of Martyrs, oh mother, don’t ever worry if the child went away and don’t you cry, the child is shining and somewhere along the way he shall be redeemed.
The child is missing in a field of brutality, I have seen the pure red of bloods and heard the silence of death, will you pray for the child, mother? Will you ask me to come back home? Would I bear to carry along these images? The smell of graves and the loss of innocence, the tears of failure and the absence of hope, a laughter of freedom for the bleeding wound, so close your eyes till blood drifts out of my veins, and shed a tear for a free soul, the child has gone oh mother, tasting the bitterness of a sweet dream, the child has gone, oh mother, don’t ever wait for the letters and don’t you cry.