Artists moved the earth
With their cry and left
We were born in endless years
Children of cut down trees
We were silent without knowing
The generation the one from nowhere
Who was resurrected without dying
The spilled milk is red
Like the color of our hair
That dance, that dance
Drugs are already pale
Words without prison
Badly raised children
Born with television
Spilling milk is red
Like the color of our hair
That dance, that dance
Lost generation
Artists, black people, mothers
Our lifeless dead
The pain that still hurts

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