Violetas para Violeta

The news page
from Mercurio and La Estafeta,
between diets for the obese,
gossip and false prophets,
confirmed that without kisses
the violets wither.

I curse from the high sky
that expropriated her song,
her décimas, her handkerchief,
her quinchamalí, her tears,
viola of chicha and grapefruit,
pots of horror.

Have you seen insolence,
cynicism and treachery,
tainting decency,
kidnapping fantasy,
when innocence cries out
they call the police.

Violeta Parra said it,
sister of Nicanor,
fortunately I have a guitar
and without boasting of a voice,
if they invite me to a party
count on my heart.

From Chicago they flew
some gringos in ties
and in a suite in Santiago,
without stepping on Chuquicamata,
they decided that in my land
serenades were unnecessary.

More alone than a suitcase
forgotten on Gran Vía,
since Violeta left
mourning poetry,
they pick on poets
for spelling mistakes.

The cueca of my Chile,
the smart ones from Washington,
tarnish it with rifles
that shoot down reason,
damn the parades
and the Christ who founded them.

The poor are not rich
nor is copper more than clay,
freedom shuts up
since curfew,
ask the soldiers
what they did in La Moneda.