Sintax.the.terrific & DJ Kurfu - The Blows [tekst, tłumaczenie i interpretacja piosenki]

[Sample]
...we still advocate nonviolence and passive resistance and still determine to use the weapon of love
...we are still insisting, emphatically, that violence is self-defeating, that he who lives by the sword will perish by the sword

[Verse 1]
Poster board fit flat felt-tip stroking
My protested wit inside a pithy black slogan
Bare feet, Birkenstocks, British Knights, or Brogans
Marching to a different drum but same basic motion
Against the grain spoken, government provokin’
Resist what’s popular, a drop against the ocean
Like a sea of good cops that flash flood the boulevard
Sent to drown speech with the freedom that they guard
Fidget on a picket line, nervous digits gripping signs
Single-minded purpose turns shrinking violet rigid spine
Artificial lines in the blacktop divide us
Crackpot protest or a genius that defines us
But every single blow, it grows the bond between us
The baton crushes both human beings back to dust
“Do you really trust yourself and the decision that you make
That your fist to my face is a righteous strike to take?”
I feel the quiet here and the solace of the riot gear
I wonder if behind the mask they shed a private tear
For the “niggas” and “defiant queers” violently clear
That it’s their own face reflected in the blast shield mirror

[Hook]
“Can you look me in the eye when your striking my side?
Or is it easier to close ‘em and hide?”
The blows . . . the blows . . . the blows . .

[Verse 2]
He had no protest political statement
Or bumper sticker campaign ticker entertainment
No marketing plan or t-shirt design
Like, “Being Hebrew’s Heavenly but Jesus is Divine!”
Still they called in the troops, not to keep the peace
But to kill the Prince of it, of a thousand enemies
That gathered in the courtyard to cut Him to His calloused knees
And pour upon His holy head the hate of human history
But in that misery I know He caught the eye
Of Rome's lost boys now centurions despised
“I made the beautiful cow from whose side
Came the rawhide strips from which your whips are tied
The fingertips that slide into an uncertain grip
Like they know that it's the Maker of their narrow bones they hit
I fashioned every implement of My demise be
The timber that you cut into a cross to crucify Me
‘cause when you strike we share a sacred moment
Set free with every blow ’cause My blood is your atonement”

[Hook]
“Can you look me in the eye when your striking my side?
I’ve know you from a boy you’ve got nothing to hide.”
The blows . . . the blows . . . the blows . .