Carlos Fonseca

A sound of birds
Predicted your death
And your sweet blood
Bloomed in the malinches
The mountain cried
And the lion bird
And the morning star sowed
The sweat from your brow, and it grew
In Zinica, love
Our liberation
Captain and helm
Tayacán of my people

And you keep shooting
With your blue eyes
Ambushing the pain
Without fear of dying
Teaching to kill
To read and to write
With Danto and Pedrón
Benjamín Zeledón
On 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, they trembled
The cowards at 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
Determined to give birth
To a mature and happy homeland
A people's power