As a child I had a marked
arms race;
tin, chrome and nickel tanks
and some funny lead reservists,
by hand painted, with colored morriones
that were a delight for my childhood mind ...
... I believed, as I believed in honor
of the passage of the battalion inside my room;
he was quite a general directing the battle,
and the shrapnel smoke cradled my passion
for the glorious soldiers who, saber in hand
they advanced on that cruel invader
that attacked my nation ...
... blood of then, blood poured,
all my childhood overcome by the time that happened.
Of the flags, only tatters; of the morriones
Puffed up, just a memory of pain ...
... what happened to us, how did it happen?
What traitor has stolen us
the illusion of the heart?
I think I want to close my eyes
to not see the spoils of what so much
I loved then.
Let the burnished bronze come back,
that the flags be cleaned;
I want to be a whole row of soldiers marching
and a whole people singing with renewed passion.
I want the honor again
although there are no victories,
I want to cry with the glory of a military march,
and a pennant waving, in front of a popular army ...
Only among all we can make this a better place :)