Uncle Mitsos passed.
The flashlight of Virgin Mary lights
over his rough moustache.
Uncle Mitsos sacrificed his three sons to the struggle
and his hut and his grapevine;
uncle Mitsos had nothing left: he had sacrificed his life;
he had a joy too: his sons were members of the Party.
Uncle Mitsos had a sadness too: he wasn’t a member
of the Party,
he never signed a confession paper. They killed him.
Uncle Mitsos passed
with a big red bird in his dream
with the holy talisman of the struggle sewed on the lining
of his coat.
If we searched his pockets we may find
a small field of wheat ears and
the shade of a poplar next to the river.
In a knot of his kerchief he had kept his
wedding ring and a cut up piece of paper
with the announcement of his son’s execution.
Uncle Mitsos, tell your son to rest in peace
you know how to tell him with your accent
tell him to rest in peace; everything leads to where
You don’t need much, just a little stirring of
your moustache and
he’ll know. Goodbye uncle Mitsos.
He’ll understand. Goodbye uncle Mitsos.
Leave your cane here. We need it.
We’ll make a staff for our red flag;
uncle Mitsos rest assured, a fiery red flag.
Goodbye uncle Mitsos, the flag will be red
we tell you like the blood of your children
who the fascists killed, like the blood
of all the fighters of the world.
Goodbye uncle Mitsos
goodbye comrade uncle Mitsos, don’t worry
your application was accepted by the Party.
And the light was so bright today,
strong like the oath of our Revolution
that you swear once and forever.