Father, we left, we abandoned the house,
in a time of wanderers, the whole world now lives.
And your picture, we took down from the walls,
like a lock, a pair of tears placed at the gate.
We left, oh we left, we killed our homeland,
gathered in metropolises like prickly hedgehogs.
(You know how a tree is stripped of its fruit,
and everything clusters, pressing together like figs in lines?…)
We pressed ourselves here amidst new troubles,
we lost the grass, the sleep, and the songs.
Everything’s ready in luxurious shops,
even therapists, to polish your heart.
We left and put your grave in a video,
to visit on Sundays through the glass screen.
In our minds, we place flowers, two tears, a cigarette,
we live with symbols, a manual-world machine.
We don’t visit the village; we carry it with us.
Now everything’s kept in a box,
this box, father, is called a computer,
through its screen, you meet everyone.
Through its screen, you find a bride, hold a wedding,
kiss your brother’s sons on another continent,
and weep for your mother from thousands of kilometers,
as they bury her, in a video conference.
We will reunite when we meet down below,
up here, we’re split for life and forever.
I won’t write more, for you know well,
I am weak and drown in my tears.
We don’t know where we’re going; there’s no time to reflect,
we rush simply because rushing is in fashion.
In a time of wanderers, the whole world now lives,
ah, leave and weave baskets of sorrow…
