Archive for December, 2013

Invigorating To Walk Barefooted


at the intersecting roads
of via pescara and via firenze
mansions like in forbes
and alabang-ayala
the rows of houses
akin to gigantic coffins
empty of cadavers
once the morning yawns
do they sojourn somewhere
or suck up by planets
and would be coughed up
when the sun died at dusk?
then glaring would be
the huge electric bulbs
and in a procession
the cadavers would return
to the waiting empty homes.

i could not grasp life
in that territory of el diablo
always dying is the struggling self
like scattered decomposing trash
though again would soon be alive
i could not smell and appreciate
the fragrance of pierre cardin
or hugo boss or issey miyake
my nose still longs for
the armpits’ peppery odor
of workers and peasants
of the land saturated
by the blood and tears
of so many decades
of continuous heroic struggle
my senses still desire
to feel the harsh realities
of the lives of the unfortunate
of a long-oppressed class
here, in a foreign land,
robots and plastics
pass by the curtain
of my tired eyes wherein
swimming are so many bitter memories
of my native wretched land.

now like a magnet
is the hurricane’s wind
dragging my roaming feet
to go back home
to my waiting la tierra pobreza
two feet tired of traversing
criss-crossing unending roads
like my useless stupid life
not knowing when to suddenly end
and vanish in thin air
two feet made humid
by a pair of worn-out rubber shoes
in ascending and descending
mounds of soils and steep hills.

invigorating to walk barefooted
once again roaming around
in my la tierra pobreza
the cradle of my nightly dreams
to step on the muddy soil
of plowed irrigated fields
watered by tears and grief
and the pouring crying rain
invigorating to shove barefooted
the dewy jumbled wild grass
and shrubs of sugarcane fields
or to step on the oil and grease
spattered by machines of greed.

yes, invigorating to walk barefooted
on the heaving streets of protests
against injustices and grief
when blistering are the sun’s rays
nice to walk barefooted
on forests and mountains
on fields and urban cities
on the land springing are the tears
of an exploited enslaved race
on the land being watered
by the blood of revolutionaries
for the freedom and glory
of the oppressed-downtrodden class
yes, always there would be
rebellious longing hearts
in the breast of tormented lives
yes, you would barefooted  feel more
the etched testaments of truths
in the masses wretched lives!



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No More Will I Pay You A Visit


no more
will i pay you a visit
on your last moments
of heroic struggle
against the world of grief
i know now or tomorrow
or on a day in this rainy
month of july
you’ll suddenly leave
the defiant bloody struggle
you’ve embraced against
the exploitative ruling class
no more
will i pay you a visit
though i still wish to see
your stares full
of sacred aspirations
those two emerald eyes
glittering with flaming
and undying love of country
those lips always expressing
the rebellious sentiments
of an oppressed race.

no more
will i pay you a visit
now that your breath
is being sucked up
by the tender wind
kissing your haggard face
a face full of determination
to carry-on the struggle
for the freedom and glory
of the masses and beloved land
which you so fervently desired
during so many nights of vigil
for sure, i know,
you’ll not shed a tear
on your impending death
but you’ll consider it
your great honor
that you’ve poured
your sweat and blood
on the yellowish grass
and the land made barren
by the forces of darkness
of abusive power and injustices
i know the tender or whirling wind
will always be humming
the lyrics and melodies
of your legendary life
so gladly dedicated
to your beloved land.

no more
will i pay you a visit
now that the fireflies are gone
now that the rolling clouds
are embracing the breast of darkness
enough for me to be with you
in our intertwining memories
enough for me to be with you
in crimson gumamela flowers
in crawling cadena de amor vines
on hills and mountain slopes of hope
and in crying amarillos
jumbled cogon and wild grass
along the savannah of love
though your body
will soon be buried
in a waiting lonely grave
unmarked even by a wooden cross
nameless and no epitaph on gravestone
our eyes would still meet
our blood would still mix
our veins would still be conjoined
in every heart of the dispossessed
in every tear and sob of the enslaved
whether in fields or cities of grief
our rumbling voices still would sing
the fragrant lyrics of freedom
for our incarcerated and suffering
la tierra pobreza!

(My English version of DI NA KITA DADALAWING MULI)

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Go Ahead!


(“It’s better to die with honor than to live in shame.” — Dr. Jose P. Rizal)

grinning is the gun’s mouth
to those whose conscience
is blemished by evil and greed
go ahead, go ahead…
put inside your mouth
the cold iron barrel
or point it to your forehead
or where your evil heart is
smiling is the trigger
at the hands that plundered
silver and gold
of a nation long devoid
of glory and happiness
of a country stunted by woes
castrated by the cohorts of mammon
and rulers dancing the rigodon.

go ahead, go ahead…
passionately kiss
the protruding gun’s clit
let the slaves hear
the bullets’ joyful shouts
let your brain and skull explode
let your breast and heart bleed
and wash with your squirting blood
the face benumbed by slaps
and blows of stolen wealth
maybe your tainted honor
would be cleansed
by the drops of your blood
on the yellowish thirsty grass
maybe for a while the sun’s rays
would even shower you with flowers
and thousands of fireflies and stars
fervently would be praying and twinkling
on nights of your lavish wakes.

go ahead, go ahead…
kiss hard the gun’s lips
the protruding clit
let tragedy’s honor end
the darkness lingering shame
go ahead, go ahead…
don’t hesitate anymore
your tarnished honor would rejoice
once you end your gluttonous life
we’ll even graciously decorate
with wreaths of roses and orchids
your waiting coffin and grave
for the memory and peace
of your ice-cold cadaver
yet, we, the living dead
has long been entombed in the world
of unbearable suffering and grief
but with the sudden departure
of unprincipled mammals like you
reincarnated would be our hopes
and we the wretched of the earth
would vigorously pursue
our sacred bloody struggle
through the pitch-dark nights
till the moon and the stars
shine brilliantly
on our forsaken land
till we feel finally
the caressing relaxing wind
on our bodies and limbs
as the nation is
gloriously metamorphosing.

go ahead, go ahead…
put inside your mouth
the gun’s cold barrel
and lovingly kiss
and press hard
the protruding trigger!

(My English version of SIGE NA!)

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We’ll Pray No More At Gethsemane


no more we’ll walk kneeling
at the foot of the mount of olives
no more we’ll pray
at the garden of gethsemane
near the brook of kedron
we’ve been lashed repeatedly
by the centurions of the state
while prostrate  on the ground
they violently kicked us
even expectorated on us
we’ve been made to swallow
their stinking holy bread
from the pungent toilet bowl
we’ve been forced to drink
yellowish holy water
from the murderer’s gallbladder
some of us were cemented in drums
and let the sea swallow us
beheading even a few of us
and our detached heads
were kicked like balls
rolling down the mountain slopes
because we’ve been preaching the truths
to the oppressed-downtrodden class
and vigorously we keep on fighting
for the sacred progress and freedom
of our exploited beloved land.

we’ll pray no more
at the garden of gethsemane
though our umbrellas are the swaying leaves
of the praying olive trees
firmly standing still
after so many hurricanes
after so many masses and rituals
of deceiving pharisees
though nine hundred years had past
at the calm garden of gethsemane
we’ll no more stare at and talk to
the stars on the ashen serene sky
we’ll pray no more
at the garden of gethsemane
venerated even by the crystal tears
of the brook of kedron
repeatedly we’ve recited the rosary
inside the bellies of gigantic temples
we’ve genuflected before the altar
of so many wooden sedentary saints
even took our communions
on holidays and sundays
offered hosannas to one merciful god
yet year after year after year
we’ve been carrying on our shoulders
a cross as heavy as the world
while patiently trekking our path
toward our calvary of broken skulls!

yes, we’ll pray no more
at the garden of gethsemane
near the heart of kedron
we’ll rest no more our backs
on the old sturdy olive trees
we’ve been repeatedly nailed
on numerous holy weeks
on our cross of sorrows and despair
we’ve died for so many times
but reincarnated again and again
because gyrating are our hopes
on the screen of our eyes
because our ideology of love
keeps marching on and on
its cadences hoping to silence
the shouts of injustices
its rebellious rumbling sounds
will be exploding bombs
desiring to destroy to smithereens
society’s inequalities
yes, the few demigods
of injustices and greed
will soon be buried
on the hills of broken skulls
their blood will overflow
on the crystal-clear brook of kedron
to finally submerge and drown
the golgotha of the poor!


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Intifada! Fight!


when seething
from the camp
of jabalia to gaza
and flaming
from the west bank
to east jerusalem
the first intifada
of the heroic palestinians
when the jews occupied
their sacred territory
a mother fell
on the heaving ground
bloody were her breasts and belly
with fresh bullet holes
her baby rolled like a ball
near the asphalted sidewalk
suddenly the baby crawled
toward the dead mother
and tenderly, so tenderly
grasped the bloody breasts
the baby’s lips hungrily tried
to suck even a drop of milk
would there be milk
from a dead mother’s breasts?

in our la tierra pobreza
flooding is the milk of nestle
from the blood and sweat
of wage slaves
but their emaciated babies
could not take a lick of it
sagging now are their mothers’ breasts
devoid of even a drop of milk
after mashed by poverty and sorrow
while the rich and the elite
use fresh milk abundantly
to wash their rectum and urethra
inside the imposing mansions
of inhumane voracious capitalists.

intifada! fight!
like the marcha intifada in bahrain
when colonized by great britain
intifada! fight!
like the zemia intifada
in the spanish sahara
against the colonialists
intifada! fight!
like the sidi bouzidi
intifada in tunisia
intifada! fight!
in the empire of nestle
at la tierra pobreza
though our mere weapons
are the sharp arrows of words
of rebellious liberating poetry
though our defiant voices
are our exploding bombs
and the angry cadences
of thousands of feet
are the sounds of gunfires
on the streets of protests.

intifada! fight!
till millions of workers
in factories of greed
and the oppressed class
be finally emancipated
till the fortress of demigods
of exploitation and injustices
be completely pulverized
intifada! fight!
till billions of stars
shine brilliantly on the land
of darkness and fear and sorrows
cradle-land of our bloody memories
of our undying hope and love
you, you, the long-suffering
our beloved la tierra pobreza!

(My English version of INTIFADA! MAKIBAKA!)

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in the forest of darkness and fear
they are gorillas clinging and swinging on vines
beating their breasts and shouting at the wind
they who are the intellectuals of ivory towers
they who are castrated by regimented academe
they who are incarcerated by authoritative books
they who are blinded by words
oftentimes devoid of realities
they whose nostrils are with cotton balls
they whose heads are embalmed
by theories and ideas leading to nowhere
they who always want to masticate
every formula in all their thoughts
they who are entombming their latent talents
in the world of plato, derrida and focault
would they be always hanging on vines
they whose visions are blurred
and couldn’t see the glaring lights?

they who are clinging and swinging on vines
in the forest of darkness and fear
don’t want to immerse themselves
and swim in the turbulent sea of life
though they’re searching always for genuine pearls
they don’t even desire to enter, sleep and dream
in huts in hills, mountains and fields
nor even like to stare at the dewdrops
descending on desolate blades of grass
to see the tears of the dispossessed
nor even step on clayish soil of irrigated fields
while swaying are the jumbled talahib grass
to feel the pulsating revolting breast
of the oppressed-downtrodden class
when would they dip their fingers
in vinegar and salty sauce
if their hands only used to touch and caress
smooth porcelain cups, glittering silver spoons
and crystal goblets of aged wines?
when would they mash the cold cooked-rice
so truths would come out from their swollen mouths
which used to eat and chew
the torn pages of antiquated books
evading to dissect and expose
the maladies of a society
ruled by the exploitative class
and gluttonous bureaucratic crooks?

they who are clinging and swinging on vines
in the forest of darkness and fear
don’t even want to see the squirting blood
of fingers cut-off by machines of greed
till the skin, flesh and bones are mixed
with ground meat of canned corned beef
they who are clinging and swinging on vines
in the forest of darkness and fear
they whose creamy soups are saliva of geniuses
like hume, heidegger, nietzche and freud
but could not distinguish a bit
if marinated or boiled or well-cooked
the theories they want to propagate
hence the masses pulsating throats
could not swallow the rhetorics
and blatant ideas of half-truths
so they are scavenging cats and rats
lost in the dumpsites of hogwash
and decomposing nauseating trash.

you who are clinging and swinging on vines
in the forest of darkness and fear
why not jump off the cliffs?
why not release the vines you firmly hold
and let the feet feel the soil of despair
and also smell the pungent odor
of exploding bombs and firing guns?
why not smell the peppery sweat
of emaciated peasants toiling
on the land not theirs?
why not gaze at the sacadas
while kneeling at enslaving haciendas
and reciting the prayers of grief
in sugarmills and canefields?
why not hear the lamentations of mothers
the cussing of rebellious fathers
the lyrics of poverty and sorrows
of victims of injustices?
why not discern the melodies of tormented souls?
then, yes, then,
the rampaging whirling wind
and the hissing of bullets and lightnings
could finally give meaning
to the persistent questions
of the obnoxious objective realities
that could not be answered and resolved
by antiquated wormy books!


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one night, i dreamt of
the clouds passionately kissing
the pallid dying moon
at the piers of havana.
all were dancing through the night
with the rhythms of guiro
of maracas and marimba
at salon rojo and la cecilia
at gato tuerto and la farandula.
their bodies flaming
with the cadence of salsa
mambo and rumba
music of son from africa.
lurking inside one’s nose
was the odor of vultabajo
or pinar del rio cigars
thompson or don pepin garcia
arturo fuente or vegas de fonseca
adoring the breath of garlic
oregano and cumia
while the tongue was licking
the nipples of the moros
and sucking the juice of ropa vieja.
meandering was my mind
crazy with the spirit of rhum and cola
wanting to rest at el vedado
saratoga or melia cohiba.

yes, one night i dreamt of
the moon died and buried soon
when the dawn yawned
at the piers of havana.
when the ships blew their horns
onrushing was the water of memories
of a history bathed in blood
from the ovary of once was isla juana
since the cross of the colonizer columbus
had arrogantly docked
on the shores of baracoa.
the criollos enslaved the land
in the name of gold and god
exploited the native ciboney and taino
even the manacled africans.
the criollos raped rapaciously the land
till their navel’s lust was gone.

yes, i dreamt of
the decade of rebellion
of the race of the carlos de cepedes
but was never at once destroyed
the fortress of colonization
and for four centuries
poverty and grief ruled the cubans.
for a while the nationalist rebel
the socialist jose marti
placenta of a conceived liberty
held ground in new york
then went home to write
the manifesto of montecristi
set aflame the collective hatred
of a race long enslaved.
bullets roared and hissed
and the machetes glared
but, unfortunately,
marti shed his blood, offered his life
in the relentless fight at dos rios.
the land became crimson as the gumamela
when the revolution engulfed cuba.

yes, i dreamt of, yes
when bluish was the moon’s light
at the piers of havana
the ship u.s.s. maine exploded suddenly
killing two hundred or more sleeping crews
charred were their lifeless bodies.
allegedly the colonialists
plotted the tragedy
instigated by scheming
gluttonous capitalists
so war against spain
could be declared.
the offshoot was the treaty of paris
and colonized were cuba, guam
and my la tierra pobreza.
freed in 1902 was cuba
but the machados, graus and socarras
metamorphosed into mere puppets
till fulgencio batista became a dictator
had plundered and raped the wealth of cuba
had sowed injustices on the whole island
had sold the sacred sovereignty of the land
and had entombed the masses
in poverty, despair and sorrows.

yes, i dreamt of, yes
the docking of the granma
when swaying were the sugarcanes
in vast haciendas of servitude.
aboard were eighty-two great souls
when ambushed by the military
only but twelve survived.
fidel castro, camilo cienfuegos
and the argentinian che guevarra
held camp at pico turquino
of the liberating sierra maestra.
they set ablaze the land of penury
from matanzas to sta. clara
from camaguey to oriente
from las villas to las tunas
until they entered havana.
cowering later in their escape
were the plunderer batista
and his cohorts of evil men.

yes, i also dreamt of, yes
full of lights and brilliant
was the piers of havana
when cubans established
and ran a socialist society.
private ownership was soon abolished
and the peasants took over the haciendas
nationalized were foreign businesses.
the principles of socialism guided them
till in tantrums were the imperialists
trying to invade the bay of pigs
but the state of the masses did not retreat
in the famous la batalla de giron.
fidel castro did not move a bit
and never knelt before the altar
of exploitative and enslaving imperialism
though cuba was manacled
by an inhumane embargo
on trade and diplomacy
known as operation mongoose.

when will the granma’s armada
dock at the piers of la tierra pobreza?
when will the fleets of dewey
roosevelt and obama be turned to clay?
finally in my dreams
i will clearly hear
the harmonica’s and guitar’s
melodies of freedom and glory
in my beloved la tierra pobreza!


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Not The Month Of Flowers Is May


not the month of flowers is may
or the procession of flirting queens
it’s not also the month of lavish fiestas
in honor of numerous venerated saints
instead it’s the blood shedding
of the likes of crisanto evangelista
of the marxist labor party
it’s the revolt of the bert olalias and  crispin beltrans
of the fiery may 1 movement
yes, it’s the unfurling of red flags
by the exploited working class
it’s the rumbling of thousands of feet
on the heaving street of mendiola
it’s the reverberations in the air
of the liberating message of the “internationale”
it’s the month the anger of clenched fists
would loudly explode like dynamites
and the feverish wind would carry on its wings
the collective hatred of so many fathers
the lamentations of so many mothers
and the cries of twisted intestines
but could the lords of sorrows hear
the grief of an oppressed race?

yes, may is not the month of flowers
it’s the decades of may of falling tears
sprinkling the yellowish grass
so the stunted growth of fervent hopes
may finally grow and bloom
it’s the month of continuing struggle
against the exploitative class
and the cohorts of injustices
it’s the month of strengthening the united front
for the coming dark nights of vigil
it’s the tight linking of arms
of the oppressed-downtrodden class
till they trek the mountain trails
and whisper to the hissing bullets
the moans of seething brains
and transform into piercing arrows
the class dignity of a race
and aim and shoot them deep
to the hearts of greedy demigods
who always embrace the vault of wealth
and see nothing but the glitter of gold
never hearing the pulsating bleeding hearts
of the long-oppressed wretched class.

yes, not the month of flowers is may
it’s our climbing up
the bloody mountain trails
and “we have nothing to lose but our chains!”


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The Landlord’s Horse


thirty-eight million pesos
the price of the horse
of the landlord’s daughter
nine pesos and fifty centavos
the worth of the peasant’s sweat
toiling on the vast sugarcane field
nine pesos and fifty centavos
the arms blood turned to sweet juice
of milled tons and tons of canes
the angolan antonio jacinto once said:
“in that vast land
“rare is the rain
“our forehead’s sweat
“is watering the sugarcanes…
“in that vast land
“tall now are the sugarcanes
“the blood of our bodies
“is their delicious juice.”
yes, nine pesos and fifty centavos daily
the price of the sweat and blood
of the sacadas toiling on the land
and miracle of all miracles
if the price would be right
despite their simmering minds
and persistent flaming protests.

can their patron saint hear their novenas
before the altar of grief and sufferings?
can the god of abraham discern
their decenarios for fellow-peasants
who succumbed to hunger and death
because only air and sorrows
then often dwelled in their bellies?
so many million times
they recited the rosary
but it’s not understood
even by the blessed horse
kyrie eleyson, kristi eleyson
christ please hear our cries
god the father in heaven
god the son the savior
god the holy spirit
virgin mary mother of god
divine head of all virgins
mother of the graces of god
we’re producing tons and tons
of sugar for our demigods
yet a few granules of it
swim in our rice coffee
on greyish and chilly mornings
to whatever god shall we turn to
so our cooked rice
has a teaspoon of sugar
to satisfy our tongue
while on the other hand
the horse of the rich lady
is savoring milk and honey.

thirty-eight million pesos
the price of the horse
of the landlord’s daughter
a horse taught how to walk arrogantly
like a marching general of the army
running as fast as the landlord’s cars
the coveted porsche, lotus and ferrari
while dead-tired is the peasant pedro
in the sugarmill and canefield
yes, a horse trained to jump over obstacles
in the game of the rich and elitist
the equestrian of those with gold spoons
in their lovely mouths and desirable butts
almost crawling in climbing up is pedro
on the creaking bamboo stairs
of the kneeling-praying cogon hut
everytime he goes home at dusks
how can he still make love
with his newly-bathed wife?

thirty-eight million pesos
the price of the horse
of the landlord’s daughter
a horse when hardheaded
and refused to obey his master
is at once being caressed
kissed and cajoled
and when that blessed horse sneezes
the veterinarian is so patient
in giving him lots and lots
of costly medicines and vitamins.

nine pesos and fifty centavos
the price of the peasant’s sweat and blood
who when disgusted and protesting
is being dragged, mauled and lashed
or showered with bullets
to keep his mouth shut
so pathetic and revolting
his family could not afford
to buy a cheap wooden coffin…
and if fortunate enough to survive
through the prayers of fellow-peasants
or through drops of holy water on his face
he could not even take
such common palliatives
like cheap decolgen or aspirin…
kyrie eleyson, kristi eleyson
christ please hear our cries
god the father in heaven
god the son the savior
god the holy spirit
virgin mary mother of god
divine head of all virgins
mother of the graces of god
save us from sufferings and sorrows
save us from unbearable tragedies
so our folks will not utter the decenarios
oh, god of abraham
we might be forced to firmly grasp
saint michael’s sharp sword
and slash and cut
not only the sugarcanes
when will the hot bullets
pierce and crack the head
of the thirty-eight million peso-horse
of the landlord’s daughter
so we can finally feed our emaciated kids
the blessed horse’s honey and milk?

(My English version of KABAYO NG ASENDERO)

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Hijos y Hijas de Putas


hijos y hijas de putas, caramba!
not yet ended is the era
of fathers salvi, damaso and camorra
lamenting before european wooden saints
are the likes of pia alba, juli and maria clara
permit the hijas
to use artificial contraceptives
like the missionary nuns
during the civil war in the sixties
in the former belgian congo
so should they be raped by soldiers
their bellies would not bulge a bit
though blessed by the holy spirit
but por dios por santo
que barbaridad, caramba!
you’re not a nun
you’ve been fabricated only
in the ovary of petra the horse
oh, daughter of the indios
what’s your right not to be impregnated
by the holy ghost?
hijas de putas!

the holy pope will get so mad
you’ll be cursed by monsignor sgreccia
like the kosovar women in the nineties
when raging was the war in serbia
hijos y hijas de putas, caramba!
let the semens secreted by the gonads
meander joyfully and carelessly
let them do the lambada or samba
inside the mother’s ovary
till the baby cries
and the tot be sprinkled soon
with drops of for sale holy water
hijos de putas, never use condoms
hijas de putas, never take pills
never use intrauterine devices
just wipe-out the liquid from the urethra
with the priest’s vest
and loudly recite the rosary
of our fathers and hail marys
the lad might be then
an acolyte or belltower boy
calling for million devotees
to always do the sign of the cross.

hijos y hijas de putas, caramba!
i don’t want to hear from you
the hyms of devotion and love
the lyrics of sorrow and despair
i could not contain in my hands
the waves of poverty in rural areas
the tornadoes of grief in urban cities
don’t slap me with the pallid moon
or blind me with billions of stars
hijos y hijas de putas, caramba!
just cover my whole body
with the easterly wind
while am holding vigil
in the darkness of night.

hijos y hijas de putas, caramba!
i don’t want to hear the chorus of ave marias
in the pulpits, altars and sacristies
just fill my ears with the cadence
of marching rebellious feet
on the cemented street of mendiola
just let me hear the hissing of bullets
and hymns of exploding bombs
my soul has long been incarcerated
bleeding from the lashes of injustices
we’re still slaves, hijos y hijas de putas
of the father salvis, damasos and camorras
we’re still monkeys, hijos y hijas de puta
of the tafts, harrisons and obamas
we’re still slaves, hijos y hijas de putas
of exploiting capitalists and landlords
in various haciendas and factories of greed
we’re still prisoners, hijos y hijas de putas
in every bastion and fortress
of the rapacious ruling class.

hijos y hijas de putas
when blooming is the “talahib”
in the hills and savannahs
come over, yes, and gallantly struggle
hijos y hijas de putas, caramba!
let us join hands
like the wind and the sparrows
and with unity of purpose
on dewy mornings
or pitch-dark nights
while our blood simmers
and the fire blazes
amidst the sonnets
of lightning and thunder
hijos y hijas de putas, caramba!
let us tread the liberating path
for our freedom and glory!

(My English version of HIJOS Y HIJAS DE PUTAS. The “talahib” is a tall, wild grass with white flowers when blooming.)

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