PROLOGUE

Now Asians will rule over Asia;

Toiling hand will receive tribute from toiling hand;

Life has changed; the world’s mood has changed;

We’ll crush your eyes! Don’t dare to stare defiantly at us!

Get out of Asia!

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We’ve seen much tyranny and oppression, retribution and wrath;

We’ll pluck the sun of your sovereignty;

We’ll also answer your shoe with our shoe*;

You think yourself high and mighty with fancy titles! Get out!

Get out of Asia!

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Those days are gone when you were the masters, we the slaves;

We were so unaware that we bowed to greet you;

We’re haughty now, foulmouthed, disrespectful!

We’ll pay you back pound for pound, ounce for ounce!

Get out of Asia!

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Yes, Asia was once helpless, condemned, destitute,

Not to mention its mothers, who were shameful in their own eyes;

This young body and that old soul were the cough of the grave;

It carried dark-century loads upon its wounded back!

Get out of Asia!

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Asia, the spirit of elegance, beauty’s form;

Its breast are rice fields, its cheeks dhak-flower crimson;

Its soft delicate hands are lightning!

Its hair, tempests,

Steel-strong its shoulder muscles!

Get out of Asia!

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Mao, Stalin’s brother, son of great Lenin,

He grasps the spirit of months and years like butterflies;

Love in his soft eyes, majesty on his warm brow;

With his hands he steers Asia’s barge.

Get out of Asia!

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Why do you show off so much on the strength of your dollars?

Why do you show us your cannons, your tanks?

Why do you threaten us with atom and hydrogen bombs?

We won’t be frightened; go, frighten your own ghosts!

Get out of Asia!

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~~~

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These villainous traitors to the country, slaves of the dollar

In whose mouth you’ve put the reins of government,

These cronies, these stooges, will be of no help;

They’re hired ponies; don’t bet on them!

Get out of Asia!

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The earth and sky boast a different attitude now;

The smoke of the heart’s sighs has risen with lightning;

Bullets form in the eyes instead of tears;

Breast wounds have now become the rifle’s eye!

Get out of Asia!

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The centuries turn back and see the majesty of China’s armies;

Revolts rise on the Himalayan heights;

On the rivers’ hearts the traces of snipers’ feet;

The churning of the mountains encircles the enemies!

Get out of Asia!

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Vietnamese forces march through mountain passes;

A flood of insurrection, as if mountains flow and bounce,

A revolutionary zeal, as if mountains melt,

Kindling fires of rebellion on the summits today!

Get out of Asia!

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Out of the jungles, Malay warriors attack;

Burma’s lions roar like thunder clouds; India and Pakistan have awakened;

No delay in the arrival of justice, in the departure of tyranny!

Get out of Asia!

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Today the rosary and the sacred thread combine to weave the net

No demon, internal or external, can now escape;

At every step a foundation is being laid for a Telangana;

Rice and wheat shafts become the curves of bows!

Get out of Asia!

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Together with the shower of slogans, holds the tempest’s force;

Together with the eyes—live coals—surge the rain of hatred;

Together with your imperial commerce flies death;

Now your crown and banner cannot to defend themselves!

Get out of Asia!

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Oil from the East is now a fire river;

The vine branch has turned into a steel chain;

One checkmate after another; now where’s the game?

All pawns have been beaten; remove the king and the queen as well!

Get out of Asia!

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~~~

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You’ll get a kick instead of raw material;

Peasants’ hands have become weapons;

Now metal will turn to lava and pour forth from earth’s breast;

The price of these dust particles is now life’s wager!

Get out of Asia!

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Ploughs now move in the fields of time and history;

Sword blades bear fruit in tree branches;

Drums begin to sound in the wind as soon as one takes a breath;

O mercy! The expanse of the angry, rebellious air!

Get out of Asia!

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For you Asia is a jungle of sickles.

For you the sand of its shores is ashes;

For you the water-carrier’s leather pouch holds blood;

The drinking-stands will not give you even a drop of water!

Get out of Asia!

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Wherever you put your feet, the earth will shift;

Tyranny’s neck will be slashed by the sharp-edged wind;

This space will blow up like a bomb;

Forget thinking about rulings! Save your necks!

Get out of Asia!

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Imperialism is in its death throes on Asian soil;

Monarchy’s crown is being kicked by Asia’s feet;

Today Asia celebrates Asia’s freedom;

In Asian blood shines the brilliant hue of the Eastern dawn!

Get out of Asia!

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Asia’s freedom struggle is the world’s struggle;

In our heart-wounds swell the whole world’s support;

Yes, the visage of East and West is now about to change;

Today raise your voice together, cry in unison:

Get out of Asia!

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( 1 )

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This land of Asia is the womb of Civilisation, the home of Culture!

Here the sun opened its eyes;

Here the first dawn of humankind cast the veil off its face;

Here the candles of past ages found the light of knowledge and wisdom,

On this summit the Vedas were chanted as hymns,

Here Gautama taught the lesson of equality of all,

Here Mazdak struck the notes of justice and love;

The winds of our history have heard Christ’s teachings;

Our sun has shone over the head of Muhammad,

And now the stars of our ancient firmament

See with their age-old eyes the glory of Mao’s Red Army.

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This earth

Has borne the pearls of golden wheat;

The earth is as ancient as the tales of primitive man;

Great, so great, as the peaks of the Himalayas,

Beautiful, so beautiful, as the charming apsaras of Ajanta;

It’s not less than the Nile and the Ganges in its generosity,

Its lap filled with children, flowers, fruits.

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The contemptible Kipling has died;

Vile Churchill is perhaps not aware of this;

Even the names of our ruins are of greater value than their entire idle chatter;

Our heritage extends from Mohenjo Daro to the Wall of China;

Our history stretches from the Taj Mahal and Fatehpur Sikri

To the pyramids of Egypt;

From the treasure houses of tradition, we’ve received Babylon, Nineveh;

Eloquence kissed the lips of our childhood;

Rhetoric sang most beautiful lullabies.

When our tongues moved, we spoke in the form of the Vedas,

The Bible, the Quran;

Our imagination has touched those heavenly heights

From where the moons and suns of Firdausi and Saadi,

Nizami, Khayyam, and Hafiz shine,

Heights ruled by Valmiki and pious Tulsi Das, Kabir and Sur Das;

It’s the lightning of this atmosphere

Which echoes in the melody rising from the musical instrument of

Iqbal and Tagore,

Which are restless today in Nazim [Hikmat’s] verse,

Which shine in the form of Lu Hsun’s stories.

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( 2 )

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Over our heads have passed

The swift tempests of thousands of years,

The wind of tribulations, the hurricane of tyranny and oppression!

No one knows how many epidemics of Alexanders came;

From somewhere Ravana from somewhere else

Zahhak with his snake-adorned hair;

From somewhere Hastings and Clive,

From somewhere O’Dwyer, from another place Wavell,

Some black, some brown, some white, some yellow—

In short, the invasions of wolves in every form, every colour.

But this priceless earth has remained radiant, young; even so

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Our Rustams, our Arjunas are not dead;

They’re cultivating the field in jungles and mountains;

Our Farhads are still striking their pickaxes;

Young Laila, beautiful Shirin, virgin Hir are still singing;

Shakuntala dances in the green, thick tree shade;

We, the people of Asia, have set and risen like the sun;

We became bright after being eaten in the fire of suffering;

Before our eyes expired how many dark centuries?

How many tall banners

Prostrated before our eyes?

We’ve seen thrones being upturned,

We’ve seen crowns being ruined,

The wheels of how many chariots have passed over our chest?

But in the darkness of this starvation, slaughter, poverty,

In the raging flames of time’s accidents, we’ve had innumerable births;

We’ve been buried in our earth’s womb like the sea;

But in the breeze of the new dawn,

We’ve sprouted out, transformed into the shoots of spring.

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( 3 )

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In our eyes the achievements of the warriors of times past;

The horizons of past ages have become hidden in the mist;

But the old faces of ancient champions

Are shining through the ancient dust.

Why are you dispirited?

Why this hesitation?

March, O resolution of revolt, O iron determination of revolution!

O longing and passion, go forward and lift from the fiery face of history

The veils of our past months and years!

There now struck the drums, there now echoed their dazzling sounds!

Thousands of swords blazed like lightning;

Rattling chains began to dance in the wind;

On earth’s trembling palm earthquakes—waves—roared;

See, there Mount Alamut rises;

On the high peak there is a washerman,

Al-Muqanna, the red-cloud fire of whose eyes

Spread in the atmosphere, rained on the earth,

And with its restless lightning

Consumed the glory and majesty of the Baghdad Khalifite.

Run, O Arab fief-holders!

On your army camp are rushing troops of peasants;

Earth and sky tremble inside the garment of flames.

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The land of the Khyber Pass

Where Pathans dance in circles

And the stroke of their kettle-drums shakes Aurangzeb’s heart—

Here are Afrides; there Mahmands, and again there the Shinwaris;

On the tambourines maiden fingers have written the word “Honor”;

The strings of the lyre utter “War, more war!”

Take pride, O Land of the Khyber,

Because you’ve been bestowed with a great poet like Khushal Khan Khattak

Whose every word is a battle song;

Time is forgetting Aurangzeb, but such a rebel poet,

That leader, that brave soldier,

Will rise in every century from the valleys of the Khyber,

Carrying the instrument of a new youth, a new spring, a new longing;

Wherever there is heart-suffering,

Wherever there is burning sorrow,

Wherever there is the talk of truth,

Wherever in any corner of Asia

People will take the name of rebellion;

From there the challenge of Khushal Khan will echo, his songs will rain.

The Sahyadri mountains yawned and woke up;

The earth’s drum sounds with horses’ hooves;

The hill peaks form into cannons;

The rocks rise in the form of fortresses;

Peasants rush forth like a flood;

The wind of time has changed;

The moves of kingship have been reversed;

Maharashtra lions have torn to pieces the Moghul empire;

Peasants, floods, earthquakes, tumult, songs, cries,

Rebellions, revolutions, insurrections,

The tumult of the Mutiny, the rage of Tai-ping, the tempest of the Boxers—

All these are the fortifications of the brave

Who have been fighting for over thirty centuries.

These heads have always been severed;

These hearts have always been squandered!

These hands have been melting away in steel handcuffs;

These feet have been rotting in prison chains.

Earth is immortal,

Wind is immortal,

Water is immortal,

Immortal is the throbbing of peoples’ hearts

Which seeks the open spaces of the sky.

People do not die; they go to sleep, hiding their faces in the earth’s golden soil,

Laying their head against the golden bosom of their mother,

They see the dreams of spring.

From the earth rise green shoots; from the sky, stars;

From the wind, clouds; from thunder, lightning,

And from the ashes of the people, the fire of rebellion, from flames of light!

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O brave warriors of early times,

Receive the salutations of the courage of the newly risen brave Asians!

Why do you watch us from the horizon of past ages?

We are fighting the last battle.

In your hands lay the beginning;

In our hands, the end;

In your hands was only the sword;

In our youthful hands are the reins of time and history.

Give us the strength of your once-youthful shoulders,

The light of your eagle eyes;

Come, bringing with you the light of your broad forehead;

Come, because we know that you haven’t died yet,

That you will never die.

Descend with the peasant forces from your Mount Alamut!

Bring with you the melodious camel-drivers of Hejaz and Nejd;

Come from the shores of your Yellow River and join our troops!

Come from the valleys of Kohat and Khyber and join our troops;

Come from the fortresses of Meerut and Delhi and join our troops;

Let the rocks of the Sahyadri once again echo with songs!

Let the Asian plateaus wake up with such a stir

That the stones hearts of the imperialists

Will start trembling, and all the buildings of their capital begin to tremble.

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( 4 )

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This is the land of Asia, the womb of Civilisation, the home of Culture;

Tell all the western merchants to pack up shop and leave.

Close the cruel trade of blood in our bazaar,

Because now for their cannons and machines

They will find no fuel here.

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Those days were over when

You came here bringing the leprosy of your existence;

On your tongue was the Bible, in your hands the rifle;

A sweet smile on your lips, but poison in your glances, avarice in your heart;

You were roaming in Asian lands like hunting dogs;

Your walk was like cannon explosions,

Your every breath was like gunpowder flying;

Your shadows were the garments of epidemics.

Then our eyes saw

That our tears were raining from the clouds;

Famine was growing from the earth, starvation in the fields;

The tongue was dumb, fingers numb, the breath shallow, without melody;

The strings of the sitar were caught in sobs.

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Those days were over when

The rifle was in your hands; ours, empty.

We were counting only the lines of our palms,

The rifle was in your hands; ours, empty.

We were counting only the lines of our palms,

Counting our tears,

But slavery—centuries of slavery—has taught us to fight!

Our teardrops have now changed to bullets;

You’re perhaps puffed up with the idea

That a few ponies-for-hire, like Chaing,

Are hitched up to your chariot;

That some blind bullocks are still moving in circles to make your crusher run;

That in your war machine a few

Worn-out, broken parts still work.

But how long will these traitors serve your purpose,

For Asia has now woken up from its sleep?

Fire brightens our eyes, lightning in our faces;

Pain in our heart, songs on our lips, and rifles in our hands.

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( 5 )

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What did you say? You bestowed on us the Light of Civilisation and Culture?

You’re right! It’s true!

We would not have existed if you had not been here.

No, no doubt that you laid railway tracks on the ground;

It’s another thing that under these tracks

Were spread our corpses.

You brought steamships to our shores

Armed with cannons;

The wounds of our shore—

With their lips of blood, with their tongue of shooting pain and sorrow—

Were reciting the eulogies of your “Culture.”

Our tears with thousands of eyes see those ships

Which for three hundred years

Have been sailing the seas,

Slipping out of dawn’s light and disappearing into dark night;

Ships loaded with the toil of India, Burma,

Malay, Iran, Syria, Lebanon, Egypt, Turkey, Yemen,

Filled with cardamom, saffron, grapes, coal, tin, oil, rice,

Rubber, handicrafts, cotton, and silver.

We’ve no complaint with machines and mills

Which bear the red seals of human dignity.

We’ve complained against you

Who have charged man-made machines into she-devils

We’ve complained against those

Who crushed bones with wheels

And from them raised mounds of silver, high mountains of gold.

We’ve complained against those old moneylenders and

The conspiracy of those profiteers

Who, having swallowed the yarns of cotton and piles of silk,

Increase the fat of their body.

But here we peasants, workers, cobblers, washer men and women,

Porters, ironsmiths are standing with our bodies covered only in skin;

Our eyes are consumed with burnt-out dreams, and the color our faces faded;

In our hearts are burning the pyres of golden desire.

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Your ‘Culture’ has become rotten;

Your false ‘Civilisation’ has been buried in its own deceit!

Your ‘Culture’ is a slaughter-ravaged dance, the melody of whips;

Your ‘Culture’ is the death of hungry children, the suicide of mothers;

Your ‘Culture’ is blood-covered hands, the broken thumbs of craftspeople;

Your ‘Culture’ is mountains of bones drying in the sun;

Your ‘Culture’ is the rouge of the burnt-out ashes of the Peking Palace;

Your ‘Culture’ is the trade of poison and opium;

Your ‘Culture’ lies naked upon the soil of Asia.

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( 6 )

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This is the land of Asia, womb of Civilisation, home of Culture.

Star crown on its forehead; ankle-bell melody of the ocean’s surf on its feet;

Its land—a face centuries old;

Its peasants hold their wooden ploughs in their centuries-old hands;

Poor workers, burning eyes,

The bitter nights of sleeplessness,

Tired hands, the force of steam, the heaviness of hot iron;

Ships, sailors, songs, storms, potters, ironsmiths, potter’s wheels, utensils,

Milkmaids bathed in milk;

Round the fire old story-tellers, tales;

In young mothers’ laps the innocent faces of tiny babies;

Blooming fields, cows, buffaloes;

In the air, the aire of the flute;

In green, verdant fields, glass bangles, jungle;

Sad plains, sober-silent like prophets;

Palm trees their hair untied,

The sounds of tambourines, clashing drums;

The sea’s laughter, the cold sighs of coconut trees;

Stars raining from the strings of the sitar,

Pomegranate and mango flowers, the buds of apples and almonds,

Hoes, harvests, mounds of manure, the commotion of byways,

Dense stands of tall bamboo under the smiling rainbow;

Thick jungles, plateaus, plains, the warm breasts of deserts,

Caves, cool like paradise,

Islands placed in the seas like lotus flowers,

The smile of shining coral,

The laughter of oyster shells, pearls like Santali girls’ bright teeth;

Fishes, ships laden with meat, which swim in molten white silver;

The long, beautiful rivers

Which kiss the throbbing lips of the banks with their waves;

The soft loops of waterfalls around the delicate waists of bride-like valleys;

Blue bowls placed on the palms of the hills;

The stars wash their face in the mirrors of the lakes;

The playful arms of the Ganges and Jumna around the neck of the Himalayas;

Blue scarves of snow over the forehead of mountain windstorms;

The faint vibration of soft melody on the heights

As if bells are tied around the ankles of the wind;

Somewhere in the atmosphere fly flowers of ice;

Somewhere volcano flames

Adorn their tresses with the combs of molten lava;

The wind’s fingers creep through the red hair of fiery chinar trees.

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This is Asia, fertile and rich, whose indigent children are bitten

By the snakes of hunger;

Whose lips never had the taste of milk after that of their mothers,

Whose tongues never tasted the bread made of wheat,

Whose back never felt white cloth,

Whose fingers never touched a book,

Those feet do not recognise boots or slippers,

Whose heads do not know the soft pleasure of pillows,

Whose stomachs still regard hunger as their food—

These unique people

You will only find in Asia’s paradise;

People who have remained ‘animals’ even after three centuries of “Culture.”

Where are you who brought us the “Light of Civilisation and Culture”?

The exhibition of your “Culture” is in Asia.

Raise your glances, come near! See these crowds of lepers;

See, here is the vomit of cholera! Here is the tumour of plague.

These body blisters are the heat of syphilis

Asia received as a gift from imperialist soldiers.

See this back. How beautiful it is

Bearing the stripes of your whips;

These corpses hanging on the gallows,

These people jailed,

These hearts punctured by bullets,

These eye pupils oozing blood and pus,

These faces, broken like ruins,

These hands, dry like wood,

These stomachs, swollen like water- jars—

This night of poverty and ignorance, without moon or stars,

This hunger, helplessness, hatred,

These laughing boils,

These hanging goiters,

These burning carbuncles, shrieking wounds, creeping worm-like bodies,

Are reciting the story of your capitalist “Culture”’

Call your painters and sculptures.

Such sorrowful faces will never be found anywhere in the world.

With your imperial souvenirs, Asia’s

Every corner is full.

Somewhere you built victory arches,

Somewhere you raised towers of arrogance,

Somewhere you moulded bronze horses,

Somewhere you made stone statues.

But these souvenirs of “Culture and Civilisation” are nowhere.

Summon your painters and sculptures;

Tell them to adorn each and every museum with these sorrowful faces

And make immortal your great achievement.

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( 7 )

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The earth coughs up gold;

Space scatters silver;

Wealth whirls in the wind;

The oceans carry fish in the net of their restless waves;

On earth’s breast: trees, fruits, flowers, grain; in its depths, mines,

Black diamonds, black treasures;

In the vein of every stone runs iron,

Every layer laden with coal,

Those sealed reservoir of oil

Filled with molten stars.

On golden mulberry trees tiny, soft silkworms

Weave endless dreams on shining garments, on glittering scarves;

In the majestic, strong waterfalls hides the restlessness of lightning;

Every river flows by the strength of its waters;

The turnings of mill wheels, the songs of the police,

The breasts of burning locomotives stand defying wind storms.

But the wealth of our country,

Flowing like river water, spills into some dreadful, dark ocean.

Asia’s face is sorrowful,

Its body naked;

On the roads children’s tiny

Palms lie scattered like shards of broken clay pots;

Thousands of unemployed arms dangle from shoulders.

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What cruel fingers

Have pierced our sides with sharp steel nails,

Fingers which flay even the skin off our bodies,

These long, white tubes,

White leeches,

Thousands of miles away,

Suck blood from our bodies, oil from the earth?

They’re spread on the earth like pipes;

Lying beneath the seas,

They’re copper wires stretched in the wind;

See the blue wheals on our necks!

These are the fingers of old banks

Adorned with imperialist rings.

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( 8 )

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Where are you, O sons of Asia?

Your mother and her chastity

Are being sold in the brothels of France, America, and Great Britain;

The traitors of your own home have today become the pimps;

Who are they? What are their names?

Those traitors of country and nation—the Mir Jafars of the present ages—

Why should I recount the smutty list of these base creatures’ filthy names—

You know them well!

Why should I soil my art’s purity with their impure names?

They’ve also grown up in the cool wind of Asia;

They’ve also drunk from our sweet-water streams,

Warmed themselves at our hearths;

But these dogs

Disavow the salt of their own home, its bread and water.

They are but snakes; in their mouths

The milk of our cows has settled, becoming poison;

These wolves roam about in cities wearing suits, uniforms;

They’re so hateful, impudent—even Jai Chand and

Mir Jafar would cringe to see them;

They’re so base that even garbage dumps would raise their eyebrows at them.

They’ve joined hands with the old, lewd enemies Asia.

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Do you realise at all that you’ve been sold like slaves?

Your price is a few dollars;

You don’t even realize it, but you

Are harnessed to their thousand-wheel war chariot;

Your iron melts and becomes death and war;

The mouths of cartridges are stuffed with gun cotton;

Your houses are without lamps, the flame of your earthen lamps is blind,

But your noble leaders,

Noble masters,

Are making the iron elephants drink the oil of your earth.

Your mouths and stomachs beg for bread,

But the silver-like white flour of your golden wheat

Has become black gunpowder;

The songs of the breeze have been muffled in bomb explosions;

On the beautiful blue of the oceans’ warships

Spread their black shadows.

Raise your glance!

See the flame-net spread in the atmosphere;

Unleash your tongue

And ask your leaders, your native masters,

That, if you’re free, then why are you tied in the stable of London?

If you’re free, then why are you lying on the putrid dumps of New York and Paris?

Why is our soil the camping ground of American and British troops?

Why does this tyranny and force press upon Asia’s masses?

Against whom is this war? Who is fighting?

In which direction do these imperialist glances fly?

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Over there where life dances in the dress of spring,

Where there is no sorrow of slavery, no flowing tears,

Where there is no tyranny,

No preparations for war, no bombardments—

Only stars and moonlight,

Intoxication, dancing, spring season, life,

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That Soviet Union, the smile of beautiful hues,

Embraces the entire East in a rainbow palette,

Broad, strong, like Lenin’s hand placed upon Asia’s brow.

The Soviet Union, which wiped away the world’s tears with her apron,

Taught crying lips and sobbing eyes the secret of the smile;

The Soviet Union, which eliminated the ancient practice of killing and ravage,

Showed the way to salvation after destroying tyranny and oppression,

Repaired thousands of broken hearts with great love,

Raised the palace of the new world with thousands of broken hearts,

Broke the century-old chain of domination,

Changed the appearance of humanity with one movement of the eye.

The fatal blows of youthful hammers crushed silver-gold crowns,

Prostrated the heads of princes and raised those of the slave,

Bestowed dignity and bread to toiling hands,

Taught the beauty of questioning to oppressed, begging hands,

Shook the shoulders of Asia and awakened her

And inspired the movement of life in the hearts of even old corpses.

The Soviet, which with the union of nationalities of different races and color,

Struck the chord of a new longing, sang the song of a new love,

Overthrew the defences of contemptible wars and, for the sake of all humanity,

Raised the most resplendent citadel to honour the heart and soul of people’s dignity,

The Soviet Union, which brought under control rebellious rivers and wind,

Covered the desolate drab with the garment of spring’s colour,

Smilingly took the artful heart of the rainbow from the sky,

Brought down from the sky to earth the alluring dream of paradise,

On its forehead the red sun of Lenin, on its lips Stalin’s smile.

The Soviet Union on whose head is the shadow of the spirit of peace and security.

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It is a star in whose bold light

We, the masses of Asia, see our grand destination.

The eye which dares to see this beauty with contempt,

We shall snatch its glances.

The hand which rises to pluck this glittering star,

We will sever it from its shoulder.

The legs which arrogantly walk towards this land, we shall break their feet;

If anyone’s black tongue says even a single word against it,

We will pull it out from its root.

This Soviet Union, the barge of love, the anchor of humankind,

Our strength, our wisdom, our comrade, our guide.

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Tell us that you will not give your blood for profiteering

Tell us that you will not give the cups of your heart for mixing poison;

Tell us that you will not give the heads of your children to the demon of war;

Tell us that you will not give your dwellings over to the snakes of flame;

Tell us that this is Asia’s soil, not the path of the tank;

It’s not the wind in which your bombers might fly;

At every step you will have to pass through the soil of Telangana;

On your heads will rain mountains from the snipers’ sleeves;

Your way will be blocked by the lions of China and Viet Nam;

Korea’s masses will hurl your armies into hell;

The whirlpool vortex will entangle your feet in chains;

The hands of the wind will fling you beyond the blue atmosphere.

We’ve now awakened; do you still not realise that

These are bombs sprouting from your shoulders, not heads?

Beware our blazing eyes in which fire rivers rage;

Beware our restless hands in whose motion springs lighting;

Beware, for we’re building a new world upon the earth;

Beware, for with our heart’s blood we’re filling dreams with

The colour of interpretation.

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( 9 )

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Rise, O rise up, Asia’s sons;

Descend from the mountain peaks;

Emerge from the depths of the earth;

Leave the wheels of the mills and come upon this road

Where, under the cool shade of a red banner, I am singing;

Let the siren of the mills shriek;

The ships’ whistles and engines are sounding—

Let them, for it’s the time of insurrection;

Rush from the valleys with storm strength;

Glut the rivers like a flood; descend from the ships.

Hear, O hear, my brothers! Yes, you

Who for hundreds of years have been filling your nets with the fish from the sea;

Who for hundreds of years have been making

Crimson clay pottery on this same wheel;

Who for hundreds of years, under these banyan trees,

Pulling the saw with tired arms,

Who for hundreds of years have been sitting in this single shop

And from golden iron making ploughshares; I am calling you!

O, you who are dressed in white dhoti, black coat and black cap,

My brother, don’t be angry; I ask you: Why is your cap dirty?

Your coat and dhoti are torn.

Brother, are you feeling shy with me?

Answer me. I’m your friend in sorrow, your companion.

Your condition is not hidden;

Your daughter does not have school books;

Your wife’s wrists are without bangles,

And the nail in your old shoe is pinching your foot.

.

O, my young friend, why are you astonished? I am not a stranger;

I’m your comrade. A hundred years ago

I had met you in China and Burma;

In your hands was a rifle; on your bodies, a brown uniform

On which was a layer of dust. Your uniform has changed

But, my friend, our enemy is still the same;

The same contemptible, crafty imperialist.

You’re Asia’s son; O young soldiers,

The saplings of peasant mothers!

I am only saying that you must respect your land;

The wealth of your country; guard the gates of your houses;

You’re the watchman of your sisters’ dreams and your children’s smiles.

O, it’s you?

Tell me where you were till now?

I’ve been searching for you on each and every shore, at each and every port.

I met you in Shanghai

I don’t remember how many years ago!

You were standing on the shores of Aden;

Your captain, monkey-faced, often

Called you “coolie.”

Then one day—no one knows why—

You had suddenly burst out in anger over something.

You’re the honour of the long-stretched shore of Asia;

Keep your eyes upon the oceans,

For enemy ships and pirate fleets

Still sail near our shores.

.

My sister! I recognise you;

Come near me;

The blood running from your forehead has still not stopped?

Your breast still bears bayonet marks;

But that hot lead bullet which has pierced your side,

I am showing it to each and every person.

See, I take it in my hand and ask:

In which country has this bullet been made?

From where has it come?

Who brought it?

Is this the aid we’re getting from our friends, the corrupt Western imperialists?

Rise up, my mother! Your daughter is not dead;

In the forefront she is standing

In the procession with a red flag in her wounded hands;

Rise up, O mother!

With the moonlight of white hair on your head

Fill the dark nights with brightness;

Make the bosom of your country glitter;

The wrinkles of your hands smile;

My noble, proud mother, place your Mary’s hand upon the head of your son;

We’re going to the front to fight the last battle;

In your eyes, tears; in your hands, wrinkles; smile!

.

( 10 )

.

A storm approaches the world.

Numberless suns came out from the caves of Chahar and Shaanxi;

From the valleys rose rebellions; from the mountains, revolutions;

Foam appeared from the sides of the Yellow River in the shape of soldiers;

And in the swift storm of this froth, China rows its boat;

A storm approaches the world.

The peasants have skewed old centuries on their bayonet tips;

Restless longings pour out from the heart;

The army marches like a hurricane; flags fly like a storm;

The strong hand of the earthquake twists the earth.

A storm approaches the world.

In golden palaces, hot iron rains in fire.

Thousands of footprints emerge in thousands of paintings;

On the heights of the sky the earth flies in dust,

The dust which, rising, today envelopes New York and London.

A storm approaches the world.

Many thanks for the kindness of Truman and Marshall;

The conspiracies of Dean Acheson became bankrupt in China;

This is the result of the efforts of corrupt people like Chaing

That the hand of disappointment squeezes the neck of cruelty and greed.

A storm approaches the world.

Where are you, American villains! Look at the Chinese Revolution!

With only one slap, your face has been turned. See the answer,

Look at the dreams of the martyrs’ souls, how they smile!

Shining light pours forth; Asia is glittering.

A storm approaches the world.

China calls out: I am Asia’s salvation;

Outwardly I am just a country, but in reality, I am a whole universe;

I am the utterance from Mao’s lips, which came out of Stalin’s heart

Whose charming tale is becoming ever-lengthy.

A storm approaches the world.

This is the politics which cut the chains with the point of the dagger;

This is such wisdom that a thorn has stuck in the imperialists’ throat;

This is a kindness which distributed the land like bread;

This is the benefactor who is squandering his wealth with both hands.

A storm approaches the world.

Today for the first time the sons of sorrow, nurtured in pain, have laughed;

Those fingers which pulled out morsels from our throat have been cut;

It was such a harvest this time that the bowls are filled with rice;

The peasant sows grain in the land and raises pearls.

A storm approaches the world.

The roads once closed with imperialist stumbling-blocks are now open;

From the lips fly kisses of faith; from the eyes, glances of love;

The arms of Nanking are now the garland around the neck of beautiful Samarkand;

And Bukhara restlessly embraces Peking.

A storm approaches the world.

The curved eyebrow of beloved China enchants the hearts;

The banner of fiery twilight colour augments the redness of the blood;

Mao’s hand held high points to the road of victory and triumph;

Mao stands atop the Himalayas and calls to Asia:

A storm approaches the world.

A storm approaches the world.

.

( 11 )

.

This is not poetry;

It’s the sound of the battle hymn, the thunder of the cloud, the storm’s voice,

Hearing it, the mountains come, donning a snow plume on their green forehead,

Weaving the garlands of red flames in their hair of smoke;

The oceans come, sounding the ankle-bells of the surf;

The wind comes, swinging the blue slingshots of its gusts;

Clouds come, riding on lightning;

Plateaus come, with the lasso of rivers thrown over their shoulders;

Rocks come, holding their heavy mace;

Jungles come, flying the emblems of tempests;

The ghouls of deserts come, singing, playing their tambourines;

Acacia trees come, raising their thorny hands;

Trees come, clapping their green palm leaves;

Minarets come, sounding their loud-dome drums;

The earth comes, keeping time on its tabor;

Light comes, carrying the shield of the warm sun;

Darkness comes, joining the arrows of cool stars;

The fields come, bringing the army of its plants;

The bushes and weeds come, hiding snipers in their breast;

Martyrs come, singing songs from their bloody lips;

Political prisoners carrying the dreams of the destruction of prison;

Peasant girls with hot flames of burning hell in their fiery eyes;

Youth mingling the colour and scent of the rose in their red cheeks;

Throbbing breasts hiding the lightning of beauty under

The veil of twilight—all come.

Palms come with lighted lotuses of henna,

Kisses come, carrying the flowers of smiling lips,

Beautiful mothers adorning their body with the shoots of spring,

Toddling children holding butterflies on their palms,

Stars rowing boats of light with their eyelashes—come;

Books come, humming,

Houses come, sighing,

Clerks come with paper files under their arm,

Hammers come. shaking the heart of war-mongers,

Ships come, taking the form of the royal swan,

Signals come, raising their proud head,

Engines come, raising laughters of steam,

Boilers come, smiling upon hell,

Wheels come, crushing the head of corrupt imperialists

Who eat other people’s food;

Clinking, colorful bangles as if turning Krishna’s wheel,

Shining tikas carrying the curved bows of the eyebrow,

Eyes come, with the mascara of their sorrow,

Lips, once nailed shut, come,

Hands come, washed with the tears of dew,

Hands come, pushing the plow,

Hands come, touching the machine,

Hands come in which flags sprout,

Hands come on which poems are written,

Hands come, telling stories,

Hands come, making stars,

Hands come, clutching the neck of lightning

And arm-wrestle stone and iron,

Hands dipping saris in colour vats,

Hands writing earth’s fate with their fingers—come.

.

Now on the soil of Asia grows a jungle of hands,

Fists of marble and black stone;

Lotus buds, flowers of cotton, spheres of bombs and coconuts.

Where are you, O new bride of spring’s dawn, come!

Our restless palms

Hold the vermilion of twilight,

The flowers of moon and stars,

Flakes of light, tinsel of silver and gold.

.

( 12 )

.

Put your hand in ours hand, O springs of Communism!

Put your hand in our hand, O laughing stars of the Peoples’ Republic!

Put your hand in our hand, O noble workers of Europe and America!

We are one; we’ve become one;

Black, yellow, white, brown,

We’re the flowers of a single string, the light of one sun.

We’re the various strings of one vina, the waves of the heart of one ocean,

Separate, nevertheless we are one, the inhabitants of one earth;

We are the settlers of one earth, believers in one humanity;

There is neither a West nor an East.

The earth takes the mirror of the sun and dances;

Life sings the songs of peoples’ victory.

.

WE’RE FALLING INTO FORMATION; WE’RE ADVANCING.

.

This is the time of insurrection; we’re raising our heads;

This is the dawn of revolution; we’re singing anthems.

We’re waving the victory flags in the sky.

We’re advancing.

March forward; there’s nothing in the curves of the road.

Rain lightning! There’s now nothing in the dampness of tears;

There’s only the distance of one step; after that, no more.

This is the destination of a new life; we’re smiling.

We’re advancing.

.

We neither care for our hands nor for our sleeve;

With us walk the movements of the earth;

For us the wind of China has changed;

We’re now blowing China’s wind across Asia;

We’re advancing.

.

Under the shape of rebellions youth briskly walks;

Our snipers are in every city, in every village;

Our feet have lightning wings;

At every step we’re raising terror;

We’re advancing.

.

The caravan passes through the land of dawn and dusk;

The mountains bow their heads in respect;

Death is shaking with the fear of the swift-footed new life;

How many fortresses are we making from our footprints!

We’re advancing.

.

Somewhere we’re riding a swift horse, the wind;

Somewhere we’re the thunder in clouds, somewhere else the waterfall;

Somewhere we’re the form of autumn, somewhere else the face of spring;

In every shape we’re hovering over space.

We’re advancing.

.

From: Eshiyā jāg uṭhā (Asia Has Awakened), 1952. pp. 1 – 47