To the Flower of the Revolution
borne under the equatorial sun,
whose heart bloomed in the fields of fury
under the price of the the tyrant's gun.
Beware the grand illusion
the tyrant had not believed
that Fate's own hand, the fickle one
its pride it has deceived.
Where the winds of change blew upon
the yellowed ribbons of the few
but faith and fate has stirred the hearts
to change that which they never knew.
And so this widow, fragile though strong
cloaked beneath the haloed light
asked the heavens to change the wrong,
to muster all our feebled might.
With voices falling like the rain,
of ballots sullied with the tears
where justice shall never be in vain
to dissipate our buried fears.
As for the trumpets heard on high
from every distant road and hill
to walk, to cover and to fly
onto the lion's den for the kill.
To seek solace and of peace
guided by a mantle from above
to put the hardened hearts at ease
and show them that such is love.
For such a flower can only be
as gentle as those who knelt
for it's better to be than to enforce
the bullets tucked under the belt.
And so a miracle that only He
can ever show to us this day
that peace can be had only if we
seek guidance and to pray.