By the mountain ranges nor the seas. Rain quality of the two coasts. Ports abiertos to the hopes. II WELL. There where they destroy stones of the house of my parents. There where they destroy bitts of our birds the small ones and the real birds.
There where now they open the bottles of the black smoke. There where the black smoke now dyes of black color indigo the garden. There just this the dry well and laughed there dry. Where the white dust of the path covers the eyes to us. Dry leaves of trees droughts already are. There there the paradise of my childhood.
Now it is hell of black gold. Where the seas cruzados crujen pain in the heat of. There there now only a single station the summer of Globalisation the contamination and the extermination. Dry networks and thorns of fish that lie in the already dead sea. The sands grow and the water is run out. Or the torrential water floods to us with or without reason. Our homes. Who mistress now the two coasts mirrors of the ephemeral death Where the air strikes like crazy person next to a great ball fire air skittle. They devastate the crystal runners mirrors of the evil that we suffer. Melted crystals of the poles and the ice. Everything runs without brake with I release the brakes. We go towards the black night. We are draining septic tanks. We go towards the wind that will cross the blindness, The empty pupils watching the died fruits of the mother earth already died. III IT HAPPENED. We do not wake up behind schedule. We do not wait for tearful lloros. Of I milk ardent of the breathlessness. And the death of our Mother Earth And I while I cry asolas. And I buccaneer of the Dead Sea. And I rider by a white path. And I while I only cry and I cry Poetry of the revolution surrealistic neon.