La Ciudad de Los Muertos

In the city of the dead, where poppies grow,
women hang clothes on nameless tombstones,
children among the graves play to save their lives
and hide from other children, hunger, or squads.
The city of the dead already agonizes in the morning
and there is no one to represent them at the United Nations.
In every city there is a cemetery
where the dead are exiled.

In the city of the dead, the bus doesn't stop,
when Death falls asleep, the dead will dine without light.
A dead person shivering because it's always winter there,
offers you a cigarette, invites you to their mausoleum.
They are not taken into account in the national plan,
nor in the statistics of the World Bank.
In the city of the dead, all the willows were cut down,
it's buildable land.

The city of the dead is overflowing with life
and rust on all the doors, the wire fence that surrounds it.
The heartbeat of the dead has crossed the highway
and is lurking at your house, wants to sit at your table.
The living dead will inhabit the palaces,
streets and ministries, and the Monetary Funds.
With flesh and light from other times, they dressed their skeletons,
tired of being dead,
of inhabiting your cemetery.