your name remains on this land
between the seeds
in the green of fields
in the yellow of wheats
the day comes and he goes to mountains
he picks poetry from stars
he wipes and washes our blood
in the clearest of waters
even if many years pass in between
parts and comes from rivers
shines on the wounds
of friends who were shot by bullets
he will be our flag tomorrow
with the wind of Spring
he flies in the darkness
of eyes of young girls