I was born and I went to school during the Junta*
With teachers and priests who were like communicating vessels
Shrouded souls, huge shadows
In the anthills of the immortal nation
Mass production, local meat on hooks
But we were protected by banished angels
Knobs on our child hands because of the teacher's beating
who manifested hatred to his enemy and pride to his friend
Writing with the left hand would leave wounds
Confessions to collaborating priests and incenses
The little boy scouts with the blue pants
Became cops who broke out in refugee houses
It's all the same, grandpa, even though they have changed their look;
A big shame on the frightful edge of the sword
Which will never manage to cut stars (2)
No matter how many heads, tongues and hands it cuts (1)
Everything is here, grandpa, they follow the same circle
They are miserably tricked into thinking that they will never die
A communal thought, buried in a branded place
so the ground that you are in is not fertile
"Make me", I had told you, "a big storm
So that I will drown everyone into their own rottenness"
I told you to make me a dragon
So that I would protect you from the fascists, only I.
I have always been asking you to make a black and white coat
for me to wear with the leaves of the "Dawn"*
"Grandpa, teach me", I was telling you, "so that I will make them mad,
how to write with the left hand"
Everything is the same, mister Miki*, the frightened people laugh in the same way
The lethargy is the same, the deceived ones are the same as well
In the same way and easily nothing changes its colour
Time sews the selvages with the same words
The first victims go to the ground to become fertilizer
The cunning ones are alive, the time is embalmed
The neighbours listen to your voice in the same way
I would forget everything I have been up to in order to drink some wine with you.
They go and stand where they have thrown up
They don't resist, they accept everything, the same snakes crawl
The naughty ones and the refugees are excommunicated
by the greedy, neurotic indigenous ones
The same as you left it, grandpa, tight and smothering
The same marriage match, the same extenuations
The eyes are turned towards divergent cyclones
Rotten centuries with ancient columns as brackets
Crazy winters, and this race, the weirdest of them all
Does the same ironic and heavy grimace
- Ostensibly astute - I see it and you saw it when it was a child
I am looking for what you were looking for; a scarlet land
"Make me", I had told you, "a big storm
So that I will drown everyone into their own rottenness"
I told you to make me a dragon
I have always been asking you to make a black and white coat
for me to wear with the leaves of the "Dawn"*
"Grandpa, teach me", I was telling you, "so that I will make them mad,
how to write with the left hand"