It was the tenth of July in a land without fault, children in the gardens were playing in the sun
and the air was of home, of sauce and toil and old men in the square spoke of love and women on the windowsill uttered words
buried now in the womb of lost mothers, lost from heaven right above us who remain to watch the roots die, the priests forgive right above you, who live calmly in your conscience of just men, who exploit life
for your dirty games then kill us all! We are here prisoners of the sky like young Indians, make up for our hearts, we are here, without land or flag, waiting for something to do
and that doesn't yet bring nougats at Christmas,
telegrams to us we think we condolences! condolences!

SOUMETTRE LES CORRECTIONS