Suburbs of the city with rotten teeth

and starving walls

bloated on tatters of posters:

the scattered rubbish,

a dead body

among winter flies

and the filth:

Santiago,

head of my country

fastened to a great mountain range,

to ships of snow,

sad legacy

of a century of fancy ladies

and gentlemen with white goatees,

polished walking sticks, silver hats,

gloves that shielded against the eagle’s talons.

Santiago, inheritance,

filthy, bloody, spit on the sidewalks,

sorrowful and assassinated

we inherit it

from the lords and their estate.

How shall we wash you face,

city, our own heart,

wretched daughter, 

how do we

restore your skin, your springtime,

your fragrance,

how may we live with the living you

or kindle your flame,

or close our eyes and sweep aside your death

until you are breathing again and blossoming

and how do we give you new hands and new eyes,

human houses, flowers in the light!