Carlos Fonseca

A bird noise
predicted your death
and your sweet blood
blossomed in the malinches.
The mountain cried
and the lion bird,
and the morning star sowed
the sweat of your brow and grew,
in Zinica love,
our liberation.
Captain and helm,
tayacán of my people

(then everything remains the same and at the end it does the intro)

And you keep shooting
with your blue eyes
ambushing pain
without fear of dying.
Teaching to kill,
to read and write.
with Danto and Pedrón,
Benjamín Zeledón;
with Raudales and Claudia and Sandino,
and the thousands of fallen children,
and the thousands of dead
who never died, like you.

They killed you a hundred times
and, a hundred times, the cowards trembled
seeing you new and multiplied
in Bocay and Zinica;
in Raití and Pancasán,
in a child learning to dream,
a teacher, a worker, a volcano,
a handful of light,
a notebook, a plow, a rifle,
an army and people
committed to giving birth
to a mature and happy homeland,
a popular power.