Gyre of red marble in which sleep runs,

and vile, infamous Bonaparte, hands

rage livid, the part on a disheveled

head of hair, speaks of many nations

mutilated and broken in pieces

I’ve seen bloodied!  My soul also a flag

open to the clear sun and joyous air

and is as straight as a pine tree.  They

saw it and hated it, they sent falcons

from their vengeful falconry to hunt it,

to deliver between beaks its gold fleck

Oh!  Many a falcon returned blue skies

with a bit of my soul in its talons.

And, whoosh!, I was hoisted!– and, whoosh! with stone

and stick the people lowered me–and, whoosh!

the pine tree like a leak cracked the heavens

And through me the white flag was extended!

And, over the people, the pine was raised,

this one the hatchet, that one the dagger,

and still yet the other held the poison,

blackened the air was watered, the clouds black,

where the stars are robust pine trees of light,

and blue swans swim the fragrant lakes of milk,

and where the soul flowers and the roses

are sculpted, given their breath, and cast forth.

To where love lives, charged by the star’s own blade!

Even God who also sees that blade: torn,

more even than this flag, for there is none

as broken and without such a freedom

adornan la apagada cripta

Where the red train becomes its fist

gnaws away at infamous Bonaparte!