5 November, 2024

Murim mai bine-n luptă, cu glorie deplină,
Decât să fim sclavi iarăşi în vechiul nost' pământ!
.
.
.
See? The oil slips when grasping firm
As stolen bread is what they yearn
Glory? To whom shall I crown thee victor
To whom dost thou belong in turn?

Ah victory, thou shade of mere desire
Who’s chains are forged from th’eternal fire
Thy slaves grow eager day-by-day
To throw their tattered rags away

Put off the sackcloth of thy shame!
My countrymen who know my name
And wear my honored purple sash
To which thy master’s whips give lash

Thy fettered chains and solemn pains
No more the breaks of oceans last
Now buy my wares, secure thy gains,
And bring to mind thine glories past!