Poetry: M. Jahangir Khan
Trump is not merely born,
he multiplies—
by mitosis.
A village becomes Trump,
a metropolis becomes Trump.
In the house of education, Trump.
In the house of health, Trump.
All are Trump.
They seek a lamp
to light the globe of a dictator.
One globe, one doctrine,
one geography without breath.
I stand inside the house of health,
in a country of my own—
and yet I find myself tortured
by the Trump Doctrine.
Why?
Why is it said that rebirth is impossible?
Why can Ho Chi Minh’s farmers
not rise again against empire?
Why can Kim Il-Sung’s peasants
not resist colonial chains?
Why can Simón Bolívar
not return to shatter Spanish shadows?
If the rebuilding of the popular masses is denied,
civilization itself
will wait—
locked outside the gate.
Venezuela moves, and moves again.
Bolivarians stand against the Yankees.
Never forget:
this is the land of Simón Bolívar.
The enemy will fall—forever.
Here stands the people’s power;
elsewhere—only ugly deserts.
Row after row of Bolivarian tanks,
brave, strong,
blooming like beloved flowers.
Waves are seen dancing,
the farms of world Chavistas alive.
A global Bolivarian army—
anti-imperialist, anti-fascist—
brighter than the dark mirror
of fascist America.
Who killed more than sixty fishermen
under the name of “drug trafficking”?
The United Nations calls it
a violation of international law.
Parade, Venezuela—quickly!
It feels like a rising sun era.
Brave Comrade Nicolás Maduro,
we are not far from your call.
Toward the International Brigade we row.
We march as well—
a worldwide parade.
Long live brave President Nicolás Maduro.
Long live Bolívar—
long live the Chávez world era.
