Hurry—bite the throat, drink the blood, and leave.
This is not the hour for sermons.
This is the hour for commands.
Come, come, come—this is the devil’s song.
At least once, we must make the world know who we are.
Otherwise, the world will call us cowards.
While we remain silent, the unworthy seize titles and power
And ruin the country.
They are a band of hypocrites who do not love the land.
Hurry—bite the throat, drink the blood, and leave.
This is not the hour for sermons.
This is the hour for commands.
Come, come, come—this is the devil’s song.
Call upon Manibhadra, Punabhadra, Vesamuni—
A hand that cannot hold a sword is useless to Sri Lanka.
They purchase the weak-hearted among us;
Those who fall into their nets serve their will.
Silent, they wait—like a crane poised to swallow a fish.
But we are not the fish in the field.
If you possess even a mustard seed of mind—think.
Hurry—bite the throat, drink the blood, and leave.
This is not the hour for sermons.
This is the hour for commands.
Come, come, come—this is the devil’s song.
Call upon Manibhadra, Punabhadra, Vesamuni—
If you cannot write with a pen filled with your own blood,
There is no reason to live in this land.
Virtue without backbone is meaningless.
A country that will not hear justice will drown and fall.
Now is the time to strike them down—
If they remain, the children of tomorrow will lose their homeland.
Hurry—bite the throat, drink the blood, and leave.
This is not the hour for sermons.
This is the hour for commands.
Come, come, come—this is the devil’s song.
