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The pages burn with the oxygen that you inhale

It extinguishes the fragile fire that offers this flame

Long hours or ephemeral centuries remain ahead

the exile will be eternal or fleeting the sigh ...

The pages are still written with the ink that you spill

The clove are spread on the timber that you venerate

They wait with flesh and bone be mixed, to see the wood split

And you as martyr exhibiting your obscene humanity.

Fanfares are usually lacking in the place where you intend to go

they usually hide the reasons for the spilled blood

blood that under the same sky those cloves have corroded

and the wicked, sinners, has drowned ...

Tell me, answer me, now and forever if you have understood,

If you have corroborated it in flesh

How many spots you have on your skin in the name of thousands of names,

How many brands endowed with the indelible ink of time,

donated by those who perished for those many names ...

Tell me, answer me, now and for eternity if you've seen it

if your eyes have illuminated reflecting that image,

unique and valuable revealing image of why ...

Be dazzled now that you can see ...

Now that you finally try to see ...

with the last sigh of the flame

with the last line of your farce

Fanfares are usually lacking in the place where you intend to go

they usually hide the reasons for the spilled blood.