I DID THIS POEM IN TAFI DEL VALLE, TUCUMAN,
WHILE THE WINDS OF THE INSPIRATION HILLS TRAI.

TRIBUTE TO THE OLD PEOPLE OF AMERICA.

Indian warriors brave and sweated his forehead against the invaders insolent ...
Your people suffered wanton destruction, killed your children, women,
buried your luck.
Took your spirit, clear your content ... you left without meaning
Nobody can deny your past battered town, enslaved,
of lives lost, many priests of graves destroyed your bravery.
I showed a book, I imposed a God ... you could not say no
where do you hide find you, where you resist will be killed.
I was forced to baptize and pray that this is done on the other side of the sea ...
the wafer and cup replaced your spirit of survival, to soothe your
just call to say you were forced to tell landlord.
Without God, no soul, you were like vermin.
If you kill them off instantly, but it was better to enslave,
and planted their flag.
But all is not lost, no one can erase this history.
Your ruins in the mountains, standing stones in the valley ... they witness your past rewarding your memory giant.
While hopscotch on your graves sings its melodious song, wind
soft spreads throughout the Valley, the dust from your Mother Earth and the memory of your eternal landscape.
Whites won the war, but you won the battle over culture great ...
stay in history and in the heart of every inhabitant of bleeding our land.

21-11-07