The statue of Freedom has not been cast yet, the furnace is hot, we can all still burn our fingers.

The breath of an aristocrat is the death rattle of freedom.

We are only puppets, our strings are being pulled by unknown forces.

The death clock is ticking slowly in our breast, and each drop of blood measures its time, and our life is a lingering fever.

Whoever finishes a revolution only halfway, digs his own grave.

Government must be a transparent garment which tightly clings to the people's body.