Terre n′aime pas le sang or les ordures.
The bus stopped. Travelers fell one by one.
You were among the crowd of girls who work the land
and the midday sun. Travelers came to the grooves,
to the faces; They interrogated and sweat, and then they returned to the bus
When you you I came and started to talk to me, and, While
smiled, I answered: "Portray me, portray me". I understood
to photograph you with my empty Chamber, pick up your eyes
in the land of your face, because you wanted that you ghost
He lived in the hands of a stranger. And although really
I've forgotten how you are, now I have started to do with lyrics
your portrait: Here are the sweaty light of Banao
and stains from your eyes in the face of the crowd.