We are the people without land
We are the people without tradition
We are the people Who do not know how to die peacefully and at ease
We are the thoughts of sorrows Endings of tomorrows
We are the wisps of rulers And the jokers of kings
We are the people without right We are the people who have known only lies and desperation
We are the people without a country, a voice, or a mirror
We are the crystal gaze Returned through the density and immensity of a berserk nation
We are the victims of the untold manifesto of the lack of depth Of full and heavy emptiness
We are the people without sorrow Who have moved beyond national pride and indifference To a parody of instinct
We are the people who are desperate Beyond emotion because it defies thought
We are the people Who conceive our destruction and carry it out lawfully
We are the insects of someone else’s thought A casualty of daytime, nighttime, space, and God Without race, nationality, or religion
We are the people, and the people, the people
