Tango de Las Madres Locas

Every Thursday of the year at eleven in the morning,
next to the Plaza de Mayo, with rain, cold, or heat,
I will wait for you, my love, in front of the Casa Rosada,
the thorn of your gaze stuck in my heart.
They tell me you didn't leave,
my dear, that they made you disappear,
that they saw you in a ditch,
singing Carlos Gardel's Yira,
that suddenly you vanished,
that they erased you from the map,
that you didn't even exist,
that half-crazy mom invented you.
With or without Malvinas,
I shout your name on the corners,
while the generals
take to the tango in the portals.
Tango of the crazy mothers.
Verses of love and silence.
They took them alive and we want them back alive.
With or without Malvinas.
Where is Pedro? Where is Lydia?
With or without Malvinas,
I shout your name on the corners.
Every time they say: homeland,
I think of the people and I start to tremble
in the miseries to come
and in the ghosts of loneliness.
Petronila, what did they do to you?
You look so bad!
- Videla left me like this - Galtieri did this to me, you see...