Your voice, Nina, the way in which your pronounce and break the words, the way in which you turn yourself into a song and play it to worlds unselfishly, gives me strength, but it also brings me back to the chains whose keys are still kept by the high positioned officials of the Ku Klux Klan clan.
I say this because of myself, I say this because of God in whom I absolutely doubt, because of the years that have been taken away from me and there is no way to ever fix that, I say this because of those who did not give up the strike and believe that they could change something, although they know that the world is a big lie and that there is no flag under which they can stand.
I am a lonely Chinese in front of the tanks, Nina, a human lynched fruit of the American South, under my neck there are the razors of many mad men, who would bury us with their ideologies and mad ideas of new world orders today. I am tired of any new Vietnam, class racists, religious fanatics. I remain without any thoughts about the way out, hopeless, but with your beautiful songs. I still remain.