May, the month of roses and daffodils, daisies and basil. Raise your head, push the tyrants' boots off your beauty, strike against the occupiers' heart of stone and grow green!

Your colour adorns the partisans' stature; they give themselves to the greenness of your feelings and step towards the sacred battle. They go to become the generation of the new age's nobles.

May, the month of my country’s şilêr flowers with their heads curved down; the ranks of warriors pass before the loneliness of your heart.

May, you are the month of the red rose's colour; you are the colour of the blood of thousands of pure martyrs. Like undiscovered secrets, your colour adds a new page to the history of revolution at the end of every spring. You are the month whose arrival all lovers have awaited through a long, cold winter.

Again sleep remains caught in the eyes of the sun's children, and the nights do not pass. Again enemies pace in death's ambush, lying in wait for pure, delicate lives. They have made a sea's waves as wild and spiteful as their own hearts, as though it carries no ships on its waves and brings none to any island. But the sun, in the island's embrace, tries to calm these wild, rebellious waves.

In one corner of this country, the New Year has settled amid the weeping of orphaned and poor children and donned mourning. They are the children of Roboskî, made the greatest culprits for a piece of dry bread, upon whom they rained the bombs of their terror.

The year is 2012, and once again it is May. Once again the hearts of freedom's fighters rise up for the beauty of this land. Like flowers in the earth's lap awaiting the first rain to quench their thousand-year thirst, they search for freedom. And now it is the time when two young men, one from Amed and one from Gever, say: We are going to learn the secret of the fire of truth. We are going to become the fourth butterfly! One night they dance a farewell dance with the stars, lulling to sleep the hearts and waiting eyes of all mothers who have suffered. At last they had entrusted many unspoken words from their lips to the silence in a crescent moon's throat. They left those words to the night and set out on the road.

They were the children who gave their hearts to the waves of truth and reached the sea. They did not remain on the shores of inadequate comradeship, but became true friends to the sea. They did not remain on the coasts of helplessness, but became the force of transformation into the spring of freedom, without recognising any obstacles or leaving themselves behind the borders of nights of ignorance.

They were the children who grew wings beside the rocks, flew and ran after their childhood dreams. They flew, embraced the stature of Andok and the sacred Zagros and searched for their truth in the soil of Mesopotamia. They were searching for themselves. They had believed the Sun's saying, ‘Search where the treasure was lost,’ and searched without cease.

They were the children who buried defeat and hopelessness in the night of oppression and went towards victory and great hopes. Their hearts blossomed to the flute's sound carrying the melodies of the five lovers before the gallows of 9 May, and they followed in their footsteps.

They were the children who danced the dance of freedom with the flames of the fire of the Four and, following their dreams, tore down the walls of surrender and slavery, becoming the bomb of freedom and selfhood in the heart of a hundred years of slavery and assimilation.

It was an early dawn, the day of 25 May. The sun was slowly emerging from the mountains' embrace, greeting the snow-covered heads of Zagros and Andok with its rays. That day those mountains had changed colour. Once again they would witness the birth of two young men upon the summits of their stature. They had hidden within themselves the last glances of Êrîş and Andok. That day the peaks of Zagros and Andok had become guests of the sun's glow earlier; the face of dawn placed a kiss upon Êrîş and Andok's eyelashes. Their feelings tingled in that meaningful silence. Who knew which hopes and dreams those lips shared with that dawn? Who knew which truth those children loved? For the ignorant, however, truth was their own ignorance and themselves. That was why they never knew that “truth is love, and love is free life”.

They were the children in love with truth. That was why they ran after free life, to honour the tradition of true love and devotion.

They were the children who had given a name to a truth. They had named this country's lack of identity. They had named their childhood; they had named their humanity. They were the children who witnessed the first day, the first Gelawêj star, the first dawn. They were the children who heard the nightingales' melodies before anyone else. Before anyone else, they welcomed the snowdrops beneath the newly melted snow. They were the children who became an endless novel in the country of the sun.

And in the marketplace for the values of peoples, Kayseri (Pınarbaşı), they threw the god of money and lies to the ground. Pınarbaşı is the place where, if a Kurd passed by one day, they would subject that person to insult and humiliation. They were the children who refused the injustice of the history of plunder and assimilation of oppressed peoples and struck the executioners of Kurdish death with the slap of all those insults. In defiance of a dead humanity, they became two lovers of free love on soil where love had long since been killed and forbidden.

Through their action, Êrîş and Andok became one of many sacred epics in the history of the freedom revolution. Today they lead every march for freedom by the guerrillas. Today they are at the front of every uprising in the cities of Amed and Gever, singing the anthem Çerxa Şoreşê at the top of their voices. Today they are hope and resistance behind every prison wall.

And they became Leader APO's self-sacrificing militants at the dawn of a free life and existence. They cry out loudly the slogan:

LONG LIVE LEADER APO!

THERE IS NO LIFE WITHOUT THE LEADER

Their Comrades…