¡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.