In the caravan of enslaved souls 

There are not even the sounds of the caravan bell.

.

O Guardians of culture, rise from the earth of your masters;

The springs of life have stopped sprouting.

Erase the marks of prostration from your forehead;

Blood drips from the sleeve;

See to it that its source is not hidden.

In the caravan of enslaved souls 

There not even the sound of breathing,

.

O Guardians of love, these valleys, mountains, these plains, rivers

Here your ancestors have sung 

That fiery song

Which was the warmth of the gathering. 

But since then, a long time has passed.

.

The steed of days has hooves of lightning;

Rise, for history seeks on every page 

Your good name.

The time which has flown away,

Its wings will never call you.

Do not scratch the earth with your eyes;

You will not find those bones

Which have been devoured by the dark deep breast of earth. 

Teach a new way

To this downtrodden life.

.

O Guardians of graves, rise up!

Move along, heat up life.

These heaps are lying desolate; on these

Place a few flowers.

.

From: Yāden̲ (Remembrances), 1963. pp. 161 – 63