I listened to the songs of liberation and cried bitter tears.
Those grasping hands that leapt out into the dark,
into history.
To bring hope, Internationale.
The sound of fingers curled around the wrist of their fellow
to pull eachother up.

I've heard that the east is red.
without hesitance I turn my head.

My face is wet with grief but I grab the arm of hope.
I don't let go, like fingers wrapped around a mothers'
Though the tide of hate may try
to wash away sand.

A foundation is there.

I've turned my head.
and the heart of the earth is red.