The breath of an aristocrat is the death rattle of freedom.
Your words smell of corpses.
Whoever finishes a revolution only halfway, digs his own grave.
The statue of Freedom has not been cast yet, the furnace is hot, we can all still burn our fingers.
Government must be a transparent garment which tightly clings to the people's body.
The death clock is ticking slowly in our breast, and each drop of blood measures its time, and our life is a lingering fever.
The world is chaos. Nothingness is the yet-to-be-born god of the world.
Raise your eyes and count the small gang of your oppressors who are only strong through the blood they suck from you and through your arms which you lend them unwillingly.
Peace to the shacks! War on the palaces!
We are only puppets, our strings are being pulled by unknown forces.
Revolution is like Saturn, it devours its own children.
The stars are scattered all over the sky like shimmering tears, there must be great pain in the eye from which they trickled.
The strides of humanity are slow, they can only be counted in centuries.