Because there aren't people who share bread and wine anymore,
or sow grass on the mouth of the dead,
or know how to open the linen of respite
or cry for the elephants' wounds.
There are only a million blacksmiths
forging chains for the children of the future,
There are only a million carpenters
that make coffins without crosses.
There are only crowds of lamentation,
their vests laid bare to the bullets.
But the old man with translucent hands
will say: love, love, love.
Cheered by the millions of dying people
he will say: love, love, love
In the shroud quivering with tenderness
he will say: peace, peace, peace.
amidst the humming of the knives.
Because we want our daily bread,
the flowers of yesterday and the grains of eternal tenderness.
Because we want that the will of the Earth be done,
because she gives us all of of her fruits.