In the midst of a storm and a heavy burden,

The simple citizen continues to dream.

Out of a field dry with sweat,

The sweetness extends to the smoke factory and fatigue.

For some time the cross of justice has been carried,

As a few stole from the ark.

The cry of the belly and cry of the poor,

Once covered with ash and tears.

But the town was not mute for life,

With each treading, there was a power that held.

The pulp is not always silent,

It turns into fire, filling in the night of anguish.

The true love of mother people,

not only for a flag or for a song by the way;

This is the standing together with hands,

To fight for the land that we have been given.

Let the farmer, the worker, and the youth arise,

The darkness of injustice will be cleared away.

Because the people who have learned to fight,

The one who will make our people free!