The enemy stands at the gate; yet the gravest wound comes not from the foreign oppressor, but from a brother in borrowed armor.
Under the guise of the enemy, a son of the soil spills the blood of his kin, forgetting the land that bore him.
Cry, my beloved country, not for the rifles of strangers, but for the silence of conscience.
Cry for the children who no longer know which flag shelters them, and for the motherland, betrayed not by outsiders, but by her own sons who speak the language of liberation while serving the hand of destruction.
For when a brother draws the blade,
And cuts the root from which he came,
The soul of nations starts to weep, A wound too sacred, far too deep.
God Bless South Sudan!