they came to this land of cheap bullets
when the sons were lazying like cats
when home meant shelters and food.
when children cried with empty stomach
and no more tears to roll down on the cheeks
they left the railway tracks to the beggars
they found a song to sing
and the sons of this land
listen to the nomads
hammering the mountains
for a couple of meals
the soil of the land has tasted their sweats
they had laugh at the jokes of the people
they had learn to breathe with the fish
the sons of the bitch came that day
the sons of the witches woke up from the wombs
they left the field painted in red
they left the ladies in white
Here is one left breathing
half killed with his scissors
half death with the half mended shoes of yours.
are you sparing him to narrate your heroic act?
You! sons of the bitch,
who do not know how to stitch,
who is going to be your patron
when will you ever learn to see
what do human value and home mean?