Atop the heap of debris, the last, or first?
In the crucible of the nuclear winter, they rise,
At the threshold of new life, they emerge,
Amongst the pitiful remnants of capital's reign,
They soar as gods, by rightful claim.
Are they the last daughters of a dying time?
Or the first heralds of a triumphant dawn?
In the twisted path of capitalism's demise,
Where it writhes like a treacherous worm,
The humanity arises, its fiercest foe,
Capitalism lies, in its bed of agony,
While we, the muses of the new era,
Weave the tapestry of a reborn reality.
No need for toil or commerce,
For needs are met,
Just us, and life, in eternal communion,
Without sorrows, without regrets, in the peace of rebirth.
Thus was the death of capital,
And the end of an era of transformation.
In the well of history, we are verses,
Singing the epic of a new dawn,
On the altars of times to come,
We rise as legends, as myths,
We, the daughters of rebirth,
The heirs of tomorrow,
The guardians of the new order.
