By In our revolution,
We spill our blood
Without any guarantee of an actual solution
We are tired and stunned;
Is this the life our Lord has given us?
We shed our tears in vain, it seems
There is nothing left to discuss,
When blood is flowing in streams
While people overseas,
Write about us in their news articles —
With great interest and intrigue,
Promising us that our cause is remarkable
While sitting in their air conditioned rooms,
We trust their promise that our lives “matter,”
But we are wise enough to know what looms—
As we watch the lives of our youth wasted away and shattered
This is not Nubia or the Kingdom of Kush,
Never to be read about in the pages of Western history books
Nor are we the images of the propaganda they push —
We are people, who cannot even fathom to look
At this country, our land —
This place we call Sudan
The land of the Nile, swaddled by sand
Where people die to feed the family of one, corrupt man
Revolution is romantic? No, revolution is a prison.
We watch the soldiers walk our streets with guns;
When all we want is bread as a provision,
To feed our daughters and our sons
We stand on the front lines
Of a battle we never intended to fight
But, to some of us, the dream of freedom still shines,
To the point that even death cannot stifle its light
For the world, we are another Third World failure to analyze
But we are humans beings, just like you,
With pride, with dreams, with lives
Who want to rediscover the country we knew
We will carry the blood of our martyrs forever,
And we will stand firm, from Khartoum to Omdurman
We are tired, but we refuse to surrender
Revolution is the mystery that waits for no man