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Dedicated to the Women's Social and Political Union

by Ethel Smyth, Mus.Doc (sie dirigierte die Uraufführung mit der Zahnbürste aus dem Gefängnisfenster)

Shout, shout, up with your song!
Cry with the wind for the dawn is breaking;
March, march, swing you along,
Wide blows our banner and hope is waking.
Song with its story, dreams with their glory,
Lo! they call, and glad is their word!
Loud and louder it swells,
Thunder of freedom, the voice of the Lord!

Long, long, we in the past,
Cowered in dread from the light of heaven.
Strong, strong, stand we at last,
Fearless in faith and with sight new-given.
Strength with its beauty, Life with its duty,
(Hear the voice, oh hear and obey!)
These, these, beckon us on,
open your eyes to the blaze of day.

Comrades, ye who have dared,
First in the battle to strive and sorrow,
Scorned, spurned, nought have ye cared.
Raising your eyes to a wider morrow.
Ways that are weary, days that are dreary,
Toil and pain by faith ye have borne;
Hail, hail, victors ye stand,
Wearing the wreath that the brave have worn!

Life, strife, these two are one,
Nought can ye win but by faith and daring:
On, on that ye have done,
But for the work of today preparing.
Firm in reliance, laugh a defiance,
(Laugh in hope, for sure is the end)
March, march, many as one.
Shoulder to Shoulder and friend to friend.

"mi è arrivata subito una voce amica alle orecchie: «Giuliana, Giuliana sono Nicola, non ti preoccupare ho parlato con Gabriele Polo, stai tranquilla sei libera». Mi ha fatto togliere la «benda» di cotone e gli occhiali neri. Ho provato sollievo, non per quello che accadeva e che non capivo, ma per le parole di questo «Nicola». Parlava, parlava, era incontenibile, una valanga di frasi amiche, di battute. Ho provato finalmente una consolazione quasi fisica, calorosa, che avevo dimenticato da tempo. La macchina continuava la sua strada, attraversando un sottopassaggio pieno di pozzanghere, e quasi sbandando per evitarle. Abbiamo tutti incredibilmente riso."
(Il Manifesto)

da oben hat er keine Freunde
er ist allein, die Musik
hört er nicht, die Ohren
dröhnen ihm noch
er sucht nach Wänden, nach Luft-
schächten,
dem ätherischen Äquivalent
eines Aufzugs
er rechnet im Kopf, die Lippen
bewegen sich nicht
der Chef geht
vorbei, reicht ihm stumm einen Palm-
top, konspirativ