jueves, 18 de febrero de 2010
AT THE BOTTOM OF YOUR GRAVE
AT THE BOTTOM OF YOUR GRAVE
Quiruvilca mining proletariat.
Your face sallow and lines marked by the dust of those who fight in the bowels of the earth, your hands to deal with dynamite thick of life and your eyes look sad for the mother's gold karas serving distinct from beyond the world of yours. And forget your last breath the last of your desire to see the world free of poverty with dignity forgotten that in this thy death bed, and forget that the post as the release you gave me at that time to save the world infamous oppression of the whole bourgeoisie in power perched sentence you to live in misery. Who could forget your child's smile, for the other child that you looked at with respect for a saint? And to do when you walked jumping for joy when you named your real name Isaiah, or perhaps Isaac Abraham, but did not want anyone to listen. Do not go unless they are listening to the gringos of the CIA and come to kill you, and they burned their houses there in the mine that you took his name.
You still remember your village nestled on top of your ground near where you were born, how you had your father's son again expected to vote condor their apus gringos who were burrowing in it. You said you do not expect miracles father that says more about what we do gringo fight in this life. And you said no offense to the apus you for everything you do well, which is the heritage of our people which today perhaps we should suffer. But daddy turned to answer, we must make the revolution, because unless the Yankees with their religion enslave us, and kept insisting that we must respect the sacred Mitman apus and those in the province so that it can come the new Condor to liberate our land.
Attended all the meetings that the gringo was all his countrymen in the quest for liberation and you no you lost it. Although at times the words in your daddy you a lot of the time to reflect. How to reconcile the revolution in a world that is not the West and I hammered the idea of a heroic creation. So much so that before the abuse you took the dynamite gringos and collapsed houses.
They immediately knew it was you who was called Quiruvilca. Your wife was captured and tortured to abort your child small, unique and never see again, and your Sholes, no longer would ever see her alive. Do not bury your heart could you look your mama pacha accept the sacrifice of losing this time and migrate to a land so they can not picking on your old father, that had nothing to do with your ideals. They said the Americans, like a fucking Indian dares to challenge them. To yourself, but your comment, but if this is my land and mine since I lived my elderly parents and their elderly parents also, to infinite order with the consent of the apus and their Sinchis that all lived very well.
Now in the solitude, the joy you have in your last days to die, you've seen if true, as saying his father, who are looking to the son of the condor, it's almost too ready to fly. Your heart is very happy and not want to die. But this disease by drinking alcohol while you eats your breath and begged the small and large condor son to free you from death. Never mind that without hurting the priests do not want to respond only once the only one who is dying to your Sapa small as you see in his eyes the liberation of all nations to oust the invader and chapetones gringo who settled so long and enslave your brothers to live well, occupying the lands that did not belong if not to your brothers, no longer suffer far higher if the condor flight.
I just look in your eyes my brother Quiruvilca tell you, the people who die every day from slavery to which we subject the Karas, misti and Creoles who seized our nations for their benefit and their families, the people crying in every moment while they eat the children of our mother earth that has produced, over and in your grave and the coffin I built with my hands, I make the effort to fly my wings.
Tupac Isaac II
Juan Esteban Villalobos Yupanqui