The bright banners rise.
The battle cries are heard
Throughout the country
Into the bustling villages.
For there, one will find
The four million hands.

The raised tight-clenched fists
Will gently open with grace.
The staring sharp eyes
Will pierce stronger than swords.
The beat of the war drum
Will keep steady with the heart.

Along the four hundred and thirty miles,
Hope will connect the hands.
Pouring out of the fingertips,
Onto the street and the world,
Screaming that freedom will come,
Freedom is ours; freedom is here.

The three nations,
Filled with determination
Knocking on the door
Of corruption and fear,
Knowing the price,
And willing to pay.

For independence
Is a prize that any age desires.
Soft small hands will reach out
To a wrinkled dry palm.
The hungry will stand beside
The well-dressed without a complaint.

For they challenge
The arrogant to a duel.
Fought with ambition
Instead of ammunition.
For four million hands
Scream louder, stand stronger
Than what fear can handle.