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Psalm 120

¡O Señor, mí Dios!

in the nighttime of my fear

I point my mouth high

and howl like the last wolf

of a hunted pack.

 

Forces of hate, O Dios,

want this country great

again as it never was.

Great. White. Anglo.

The return to the new, fake Eden

sterile garden with ugly walls

manned by burning angels

with fully automatic swords.

 

Woe to me, an alien in America!

living in the shadows of papers

I don´t have.

Too close I dwell to those

who spit on peace.

Ay peace!

When I sing it

they beat their war drums.