with which movement,

in the desire

what land groove

soft feel quake,

the world heart.

how sleep indefinite spread

the eyes of the dark seas

how volcanic anger time

the magnitude of these flows,

will be the hands of men

what attitude, ignoble, of murderer.

Friend, there are stones in the back 

of the earth, scars,

in the rock, tectonic pencils 

tattooing in their lips,

a bloody cloth 

of travels and deaths.

I do not know about you, but masks

hunger, the ranks of people

shadows are about to rain

They are looking into the fields

no obstacle, no desire,

They are so, like animals,

perhaps so different,

like you and me.

No I do not know. Friend, who I am,

It is wheat you eat, who I was

are your memories suddenly

toy soldiers, oil,

and we forget, we are the feast

of death.