We deserve what we have

now, then, every day: here

some people watched an eagle

raised over a nopal, eating

a snake. It doesn’t matter,

not anymore. We, all of our

sons and childhood, are lonely

here, with God, forgotten

us by the way.

Our women are slaves

our people are slave too.

We lived among trash

made by flesh, by blood,

by injustice, by drugs

and comercial sex,

but we deserve

all that, we deserve it, since

the beginning of times.

Our country

has been always destroyed,

their people has always been

slave of others: catholics,

europeans, creoles, americans,

they come and they take everything

leaving nothing —nothingness—.

They come

and bring diseases, they bring

machines, they build their empires

with our strength called people, with

our fertile camps, with all that

we can give to a capitalism

way of History —way of life—.

We loose

every year, every sun, our honor,

here, selling our lady, their sex,

selling our country, our beaches

and corn grains

and our genetic legacy.

It used to be different.

A country between rivers is my country

and is the trash camp, blacker than darkest

nigger slavery times: the machinery

is called porno-narcotic capitalism.

An this lyric verse, a rehearsal of

solitude, is an ethnography of

shaped moments, of shaped

garbage all around us. We really

deserve what we have, this punishment

of times, this unfair tale, this

explosion, this explosive way of kill

our equals, of abuse our women,

of destroyed infancy with cola and burgers.

We deserve it, it’s unstoppable the destruction’s

breath that climb over us every day,

torturing what we won’t never reach.

So we are workers of death,

always this death jumping and smiling us.

Our tears are made of ancient violence,

and today violence, that get into our lives,

is a self image concerning the eternal punishment.

Our people lives with a new life’s hope,

always, like a donkey running behind a carrot

attached on his head, unreachable, always,

the happiness. Some others go away of this hell

and they promote interpretations about it,

even if they don’t live it. It’s a hell, always

the hungry beating our appetites of being.

Nothing will be sacred here,

for no one, not for me. We walked

and lived among the historic garbage

of others. The big loan for us

is to live and smile and hug our loved woman.

But is the false time of mirror

what we see, because we are condemned.

Here, where others will be remembered,

we don’t have any change of being someone,

we just pass away, leaving an ashes path:

our memories birth from the shadow

of our hope. We can’t even cry

and we deserve what we have:

this amusement park of injustice,

this exploded society, this portioned

believe that identify us with

all kinds of fanaticism. So we are

always the losers, the salt sculpture

diluted by the water of assassins:

a destiny bloodhood flood

named Mexico, the trash camp

of porn-narcotic faith in this late

capitalism way of living.