On The Fifth Day Of A Hunger Strike My brothers, Forgive me if I’m unable to say honestly and straightforwardly all that I would like to say to you I’m drunk, my head is light, it spins, not from raki but from hunger. My brothers, I’m European, I’m Asian, I’m American, In this month of May I’m not in jail or on a hunger strike, But lying at night in a meadow With your eyes as near to mine as the stars And your hands in mine as a single hand like the hand of my mother like the hand of my helpmate like the hand of life. My brothers, You, at least, have never abandoned me, Not me or my country or my people. I know that you love me and love what’s ours As I love you and love what’s yours. And for this I thank you, my brothers, I thank you. My brothers, I have no intention of dying. And if I am killed I know I’ll go on living in your thoughts. I’ll live in the lines of Aragon- in every line that describes the coming of beautiful days- And in the pigeons of Picasso, And in the folksongs of Robson… And more beautiful than anything else more triumphant than anything else I’ll live in the jubilant laughter of a comrade on strike day in the port of Marseilles. My brothers, Since you really wish me to talk again, I’m so happy, so happy, that I spurt the words out!