Throughout the Diaspora our blood has been spilled as water throughout the generations, for hundreds of years - in all countries, in all the climates, but no plant has sprouted from our blood, no flower has blossomed. Mere puddles have remained, puddles of spilled blood mixed with dust. And over the years they too had dried up. Only in this country, in the homeland, among the other flowers, sprouts a small flower, the little red flower, called the blood of the Maccabees ...

Here we wandered through the country's pathways, breathing the air of Modi'in, we had watched the view of the bare hills, we climbed the cliffs, we went up and descended through the paths and routes the Maccabees had trodden. The wind became animated, as it was clad with skin, bones and tendons.

... because justice must materialize here and for us. And not a dream of justice, not an abstract conception of the idea of justice. Justice must be applied here in actuality. It shall grow like the fields of wheat, barley, and grain, in the fields that are sown with tears and harvested with joy, and if it is necessary, they shall be irrigated with blood as well...

And the same blood, let us say it in all simplicity and with confidence, flows in our veins. In this matter, they are like us. And if a drop of our blood falls on the soil of the homeland, it would mark a spot for growth of a small flower. There a small red flower shall emerge and shall be named after them. Since for this, the land produces for our sake, every plant in its variations and every flower.