Freedom.
Oh its song, oh its cry.
It stays muffled in the hearts of the oppressed,
Then one day, it shouts out.
It cannot contain itself one second more.
It cannot stay inside the unhappy souls.
It must go, it must go.

Freedom.
Oh its song, oh its cry.
Its cry is heard when the oppressed fight back.
They come out knowing they might die.
Why?
Because it is better to be free a moment,
Knowing what you’ve accomplished,
Than to die sad and depressed,
Nothing accomplished.
But freedom can not be compressed forever.
It cannot be compressed forever.

Freedom.
Oh its song, oh its cry.
Its cry can be heard from the Tunisians,
Who decided that enough was enough.
They had been long suppressed.
Out that dictator went,
Out in shame and humility.
Freedom had won a victory.

Freedom.
Oh its song, oh its cry.
Its cry can be heard from the Egyptians,
Who for thirty years,
Were suppressed, oppressed, and depressed.
Enough, freedom cried, enough with this sadness.
And the youth looked for a brighter future.
Look at their victory, how had they won?
The cry for freedom was pushing them on,
Pushing them on.

Freedom.
Oh its song, oh its cry.
Its cry can be heard in Libya,
Bahrain, Morocco, and Algeria,
Yemen and Jordan.
Its song sweeping over the land,
Making people wake up to its call.
They finally listen to their heart, to that cry.
It’s been there for a while.
And how they taste it, sweet and strong,
Oh so sweet, and oh so strong.

Freedom.
Oh its song, oh its cry.
We’ve heard it cry out before.
Many times before in the history of the world.
And its song, it lives on.
Since the first oppressed person on earth,
Decided they wanted justice,
Freedom’s made out its own rhythm.
Kicking up a storm at times,
Then settling down as peace,
In the rivers that flow,
In the breeze that blows,
The song of freedom will always be there.