Mexicans, to the cry of war,
Offer the steel and the bridle,
And let the earth's core tremble
To the roar of the cannon.
Oh Fatherland! wreath your brow with the olive
Of Peace, the divine archangel
Since in heaven, your eternal destiny
has been written by the finger of God.
But if a foreign enemy should dare
To profane your ground with his step,
Think, oh beloved Fatherland! that heaven
Gave you a soldier in each son.
In bloody combats you have seen them,
Love for you beating in their breasts,
Serenely facing the shrapnel,
And seeking death or glory.
If the memory of the ancient exploits Of your sons inflames the mind,
The memory of triumph will become
Immortal to crown your brow.
As the lightning bolt blasts the oak
Into the deep torrent,
Vanquished and impotent discord
Fell at the feet of the archangel.
May the blood of your sons never again
Be spilled in fights between brothers;
May only he encounter the steel in their hands
Who has insulted your sacred name.
The terrible sword of the immortal
warrior of Zempoala defends you,
And his invisible arm sustains
Your sacred tricoloured flag.
He will be in peace and war
The leader of the joyous Mexican,
Because he surrounded his weapons
With brilliance in the fields of honour.
War, war without truce upon him who means
To sully the blazon of the Fatherland;
War, war! Soak our homeland's flags In the waves of blood.
War, war! In the mountains and the valley,
The dreadful cannons thunder,
And the deafening echoes resound
The cries of Union! Liberty!
O Fatherland, before your unarmed sons
Bend their necks under the yoke,
Your countrysides will be watered with blood
And in blood will be their footprints.
And your temples, palaces, and towers
Will fall with terrible thunder,
And their ruins shall live to say,
"This was the fatherland of a thousand heroes."
If to the struggle against a hostile host
The warrior trumpet calls us,
The sacred banner of Iturbide,
O Mexicans, follow valiantly.
And to the faithful war horses,
Let the vanquished ensigns be a carpet;
Let the laurels of triumph give shade
To the forehead of the great captain.
Let the warrior return proud to his native home
To sing his victory;
Waving the palms of glory
That he captured in the fight.
Let his bloody laurels turn
To garlands of myrtle and roses,
Which the love of daughters and wives
Also award to the brave.
And he who, to the burning shrapnel's stroke
Falls in the altars of the Fatherland,
Will in reward obtain a tomb
Where the light of glory shines.
And with Equality, the beloved ensign
Laced to his bloody sword,
Crowned with immortal laurel,
He will make a cross of his grave.
Fatherland, Fatherland! Your sons swear
To breathe out their breath on your altars,
If the clarion with its warlike tone
Calls them to struggle with valour.
For you the garlands of olive!
For them a memory of glory!
For you a laurel of victory!
For them a tomb of honour!
_________________ „Scientists told them, it was a really bad idea. They didn‘t listen.“ – „That‘s going to be carved on humanity‘s gravestone.“
"Natürlich ist unser Buch Fantasy. Es kommt Magie vor. Aber Mit Harry Potter hat das nichts zu tun. Denn Oksa Pollock ist ein Mädchen, sie ist keine Waise sondern lebt in einer Familie, die zusammenhält. Und sie lebt hier und heute und nicht wie Harry Potter in einem Paralleluniversum. Der muss seine Zauberkräfte zeigen, sie muss sie verstecken."
_________________ Yeah, well, you know, that's just, like, your opinion, man.
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