There are flaws in this translation, but I do not have authority to make alterations. When a better translation becomes available, I will publish it here in place of the inferior one.
By Muammar Al Qadhafi
How sweet will be the victory of the wretched, and how great! How beautiful their dawn, when it comes forth and shines without requesting permission – how magnificent will the sun be on the day of the wretched ones, when it dazzles the world, rising into the sky without ceasing. You will be happy, wretched ones, on the day of your victory under the radiant sun, and will hear the music of the birds on the dawn of that great day.
How sweet will the songs be on that golden day, and how brilliant the golden sun of the wretched as it blazes. How sweet this dangerous dream – that hopes will be realized, that wishes become true. That a dream will become reality, that the wretched of the earth will have their state. Freedom will sing to them her eternal song, and the strings will sound without their instruments, and anthems will sing out by themselves! The beasts of burden will fly on wings of joy, hover upon the pleasant wind – how beautiful will that day be: the day of resurrection of the wretched!
The trumpet will sound, announcing the dawn of the renaissance, the living will embrace one another and laugh, laugh until the tears come. The laughter of joy, tears streaming from their eyes, wounded and swollen from torture. Few are the tears that they have shed, few because they are forbidden from expressing their pains, even through tears. They had to absorb disgrace after disgrace, drink down bitterness after bitterness, without even having the right to cry. The warm and bitter tears accumulated until they cooled, hardened, and finally froze, leaving eyes cracked and swollen.
But on that memorable renaissance-day for the masses or the wretched, the day their dream of a state was proclaimed, on that day their frozen eyes warmed. In their very eyes, where the movement of blood and life had been forbidden, movement returned, quickened, and gave out heat until the sores and swelling vanished. On that day, from these exiled eyes, tears of joy are flowing out like the winter rain. Wash your tired and exhausted faces, in the rich water of tears, the divine tears of holiness. How pure this water, and how holy a liquid it is, warm and soothing. Now that their long-sought-after state is here, let the wretched now run and play and jump. Let them pick flowers, swim in the pure air and fly on wings of joy. Let them bathe in their very sweat, pouring out of their bodies from the excess of joy and long-missed activity. Let them discover the grace of their bodies, by merely looking and seeing how beautiful their bodies are.
Graceful bodies, coloured by torture, and valuable torn and patched-up clothes. Who owns such rags but you, the wretched? Who wears them without noticing them but you? The smell of these torn garments is pure, and the odour of their bodies refreshing, a smell emanating from unquenched bodies. Bodies without insides, the angel-like bodies of those who drink the pure water of valleys and streams. Bodies nourished by air in the outdoors, free of any air conditioning or other artificial devices. Bodies that do not eat anything forbidden nor drink anything impure or unclean. Let the air be filled with these pure odours; they are a balsam for the wounds of the ozon layer, torn by fumes of the mighty and powerful, by the luxury items of the rich and wealthy.
Sing, wretched ones, if your state has been attained, and raise your suppressed voices. Clear your raspy-voiced throats, and let your silent tongues speak, open up your long-closed minds. Sing out anthems of victory and raise you fluttering flags high in the sky. Do not forget to mend them first, for they are torn, and do not forget to colour them, for they are colourless now. You are free, so choose the colour that you wish, or use a mixture of many different colours – write the slogans of your choosing. The sky will be beautiful when the flags of the wretched fly high, and the horizon will stretch out limitlessly before their newborn state.
The world will become quite an attentive listener when the echoes of that great festival reach it. The entire world will crane its neck as it seeks out the source of that musical sound. All of the birds will share in your joy – even the owl and the raven will delight in the victory of the wretched ones. All of the earth’s poor creatures and all of its refugees will rejoice, happy in their victory. Nature itself will participate, laughing and happily embracing your rejoicing on that day, clasping your very dancing and crying out.
A splendid, divine procession and a wondrous halo around the letter at the wedding you celebrate, wretched ones. The wedding litter sways upon the back of the camel, the sign of eternal destiny, and lights up the far horizon, scattering the darkness before it.
The clouds will scatter before this splendour, and the bright sun will appear after your long night has fled. The air will become pure, and the sun will contentedly allow all of the distant stars to approach, unafraid, and twinkle like pearls. The stars will come nearer the lowest heaven, so that the sun becomes more dazzling. More lights for the wedding celebration, and new colours of the spectrum. For the first time there will be more than one spectrum, increasing the colours seven-fold. Let everything rejoice, let everyone empty their gun barrels in celebration – why not, for it is the victory-day of the wretched ones? They have their state now, their sun and their earth.
The angels rank in rank, giving their blessing to this glorious day, as both the visible and invisible worlds  do the same. The sea is silent in a salute to the wretched, then the waves crash together in applause. The wind ceases, to let the victory procession pass. The storms break in a dance for the wretched. The thunder stops, to glorify God, who has granted victory to the wretched. The lightning unsheathes its sword and salutes them. Millions of suns draw nigh to light with their cold fire millions and millions of candles – candles celebrating the victory of the wretched. The entire earth turns into a moon, lit by millions of candles in their blessed oil lamps, which do not become extinguished.
I do not want you to become men of power, wretched ones, for this will only make you worse off, and leave you with the stigma of being a collaborator. I do not want you to become wealthy, for this will cause you harm as well; it will brand you with the sign of the rich, for which there is no cure. I do not want you to become sheikhs or learned men of religion, for it will leave you marked by the sign of the charlatan, of the ignorant. You will not be arrogant; let others act in this way. You will not be haughty; let the devils act in such fashion.
The state of the wretched is alone in having no borders, for borders mean limits, and the wretched do not have such restrictions. Borders involve problems, smuggling, and it is not right for the wretched to involve themselves in trouble-making. Over borders there are wars and flights. The wretched should not engage in warfare or be forced to flee. They have no weapons or arms, for arms and weapons are for killers, soldiers and aggressors. The wretched do not attack, for they are peaceful people. They do not need police or guards, or warning devices and bells. Such things, such devices for hegemony, are for those who have doubt in their hearts. The wretched have their wonderful latent characteristics, although they remain captive. Their desires are sublime heavenly – if they were allowed to spread they would make the very universe fragrant – and can cure any disease.
There is no aggression in the state of the wretched; their pure bodies have no such connection to this evil. With no envy, ambition or greed, there is no need for police and soldiers. The wretched provide their own security and contentment. You are pure, and uncorrupted by the world of iniquity. You are the pure creatures of creation, and you will survive, for yours is the glory. Survival of the best, of the most beautiful, of the most beneficial. You are more righteous than any other righteous and more beautiful than beauty because you are millions upon millions, and beauty is but one, and alone.
Your lives involve a greater good, and you are not self-interested; do not pay attention to their doubt, for their stratagem will come to naught. Do not pay them heed: with dignity, and with a smile on your faces, let pass their senselessness. If you inherit the earth, wretched ones, it will not be as it is now, the land of those who are effete with luxury and oppressors, hypocrites, and prevaricators, the land of corruption, a corrupt land fit only for the corrupt. This is the true secret for their hating you: you are not of this world, you are not wealthy, and for this they hate you. You are not oppressors, and for this they hate you. You are not pretenders, so they hate you. You are not hypocrites or liars, and for this they hate you. Only a corrupt state is created in a corrupt land.
Those such as you have no status in such a world, no common languages with its inhabitants. Like you they see what others do not, walk toward what they do not, say what others do not, eat and drink what others do not, say what others do not, wear what others do not, sleep where others do not, and dream of that others do not. For this they have called you’re the wretched, because you are poor, simple folk. Because you cannot dance for money, or act, or be hypocritical. Because they forced you, in order for you to stay alive, to dance with no shame, to sing like a parrot, to act the parts of devils in the costume of the pious. Who is the oppressor, then, if not the one who treats people like you wretchedly? The one who despises looks at you with hatred, and talks about you with hatred. They treat you wretchedly – and the ones who are the most wretched in their souls have imparted this description to you!
Wretchedness is a stone with which they hit you. An arrow launched at you, a burden they have cast upon you. A robe they have dressed you with. The one who bears this stone, this arrow, this burden, this robe, is weighed down by wretchedness.
As for you, is it your fault if the guilty ones have cast their wretchedness, cast its stones and arrows upon you? Is it your fault if the ones who are burdened with it or dress in it burden you with it or dress you in it? You are passive in this equation; you are completely, totally, absolutely innocent, it is not your fault that you have been made to be the passive one, while they act actively. In fact, you are the prey of these active verbs – cast, dress, give, burden, You are passively constituting the object, and they are actively constituting the subject. The true wretched ones are those who emply the stones and arrows, the robes and burdens of wretchedness. You will never be like them, and you will never treat others wretchedly at all, be assured, for your bitter and painful yet rich experience has taught you many lessons. Your travails will not befall anyone.
Do not let your conscience be troubled. You will not coerce anyone, because you are the victim of courcion by others. You will not take pleasure in making others wretched, having tasted the bitterness that has been practiced against you. You know better than others that the meanings of words are external rather than internal, it arrives rather than leaves, and is objective rather than subjective. O wretched ones, you are teachers, you have the power to explain, you are authorities in the matter. You are the wise men, with your great historical experience, and you know that the ones who have inscribed wretchedness upon you have said that water is blue, a sign of true ignorance that is truly laughable. They have said that it is either fresh or salty. But you know that water itself has neither taste nor colour. Water is innocent of these attributes and characteristics, just as you are innocent of the description by others of you that you are wretched.
Therefore, let it be a great and glorious day when your state is proclaimed, for it will be the day that justice is done. The falsehoods will be proclaimed false on that day, when the truths are removed from their coverings. The day that all inner essences of things will become revealed. Unclothed bodies will appear and reveal their natural equality, without interference by and accommodation of anyone or anything.
The day that all false justifications will be dropped, which they used as pretexts to claim that it was in fact you who were wretched. The day you will not need to passively accept reality, or comply with it because material reality exercises a control over your lives. This is what forced you to accept the position of being wretched, and toil and labour to accommodate the requirements of wretchedness. When you were obliged to accept the lies, and when you were criticized without being discomforted and felt content about the ones who treated you wretchedly, when you were easily submissive, to the point where you were quickly brought to the depths of despair – because you felt your divine essence, which cannot be affected from without you felt that they were driving you toward this. Thus, in very intelligent fashion, you encouraged your tormentors to think that you liked being lowly, so they were quick to push you unresisting in that direction.
In fact, you were looking for a quick solution for your terrible state. You saw that surrendering to your tormentors without the slightest hesitation was, in the final analysis, a solution. You exaggerate the link between your destiny and theirs since you are the one of the perfect complements to their lives. A kind of decorative ornament, yet one of the base things that result from their actions. One of the sins that result from their behaviour. One of the synonyms for their encumbrances. You accepted their wretched treatment, because resisting it would not have made things easy in your life with them.