"PATRIA EXACTA" DE ESCOBAR veiled OSWALDO
This is my country:
a lot of men, millions of men
, a honeycomb of men
not even know where it comes from the semen of their lives
intensely bitter.
This is my country:
a river of pain that goes
shirt and a handful of thieves raiding
in broad daylight
the blood of the poor.
Every Manager
Companies is a pirate for hire, each
Democratic Government Minister
a demagogue makes speeches and the people
barely understand.
Yesterday I heard from one of those technical issues
economic experts, that everything goes well
;
the gold currency of the country light up the night
of Washington, that our credit
is wonderful that the trade balance is favorable
, that coffee prices will remain
like an eagle rising and we are
a happy people who live and sing.
So walk up and lie between us.
So irresponsible attitudes.
And the fictional world where they sing like canaries
consumptive,
three or four poets
government employees.
Say, shout, poets of birdseed.
Tell the truth that haunts us.
Say that we are a people malnourished.
Que la leche y la carne se la reparten
entre ustedes
después que se han hartado
los dirigentes de la cosa pública.
Digan que el rábano no llega
hasta las mesas pobres; que diariamente
mueren cientos sin asistencia médica
y que hay mujeres que dejan
la uva de su vientre
a plena flor de calle.
Digan que somos lo que somos
un pueblo doloroso,
un pueblo analfabeto,
desnutrido y sin embargo fuerte
porque otro pueblo ya se habría muerto.
Digan que somos, eso sí, un pueblo excepcional
que ama la libertad muy a pesar del hambre
en que agoniza.
Yo grito, afirmo y aseguro:
everywhere where I live, the hill.
Everywhere singing
hunger hunger and pain along with the men.
Misery
life beating them to break the soul more cooked mud.
And this friend is called Patria
and sings a hymn
and talk about it as something soft and sweet land
to which you have to give your heart to death. Meanwhile
west of the house I occupy is a picture
perched
worldwide (more reason for me to see clearly!)
and there with his feet in cold marble colony
be cheerful in the afternoon
singing, the cinemas
Under the shadow of "El Salvador del Mundo"
look at the face of the exploiters.
Its large windows residences with their singing.
illuminated the night
Cadillac kissing a blonde girl.
there in the face of the country, a great pain
night: there and I with them, are the exploited.
Those who have nothing and not a universal and high
cry to scare away the night. There
the pine table, the walls wet
, the tabs on the sad candles;
the edge of a picture frame
moth-eaten, the
jugs where water sings, the bureau
where ballots are stored pawn
, the desperate
shirts, the small pan along with the orphans
Monday horizons
Over the bitter days
house where the eviction
furniture arrives and stay on the street
while children and mothers cry.
there in all this, with all this, my heart
as grilled
complaint to the desolate world crowded room
man holding the smoke from factories.
This is reality.
This is My Homeland: 14
operators and millions who die without blood in the bowels.
This is reality.
callus
I do not if it costs me my soul!