By Socrates Aristotle
your symbol of our fiery youth that feels for freedom a sacred pulse…
I see your hand with tears soaked in prison the dark cell, to transfuse life, indestructible life, to the hero, who despises the rope of the gallows.
And sometimes with words how you heal the tired hope in the hearts. How do the leventes in Pentadaktylos, Macheiras, the eagle tops sing your hymns?
With the fire of the heart, until the ray of freedom came! But now, old man, why are you crying now? Our divided homeland will live as long as you chant your holy prayers.
He lit our candle from the fire that burns in Afxentiou, Evagoras the immortal souls, and blessed our youth to bring it to Orthros of the resurrection at the time, in the enslaved churches of the north!
From the magazine to Nikin, and I dedicate it to the late Pope John of Polystypos and Pope Agathocles of Potamitissa, with whom we lived for two and a half years the martyrdom of the Detention Centers.