¿Hasta Cuándo?

Any given year
north of the south,
Aytor and Carmela
decide in a gudari tavern
in San Juan de Luz
that, instead of guitars,
inside the fly case,
the ETA gunpowder
imposes its law.
Destiny's strategies,
mourning and snow in the roulette of the road.
Exiting mass,
Friday of passion
a junkie agonizes
in technicolor.
Hysterical peninsula,
drunk on sun
war wounds
that no one won.
And everyone
keeps talking, competing,
adulterating,
denying, screwing.
And everyone hallucinating,
repressing, suspecting,
living poorly,
conspiring.
Let's kill death,
let's invent
a song
for the voiceless people
who don't want to forget.
Burials in Cadiz
commando in Madrid,
dreaming in Euskadi
with a border in Toulouse
and another in Valladolid.
On a frozen sky
of viscera and cream,
scarlet storm
blood on the roof
and anyone's guts
next to the briefcase
of an armed guard.
And my dear Maitetxu
who died that day
and resurrected
and Mr. Nobody Pérez
stepping on a lieutenant
under a truck
looking for a piece
he lost.
And everyone keeps talking,
competing, adulterating,
denying, screwing,
and everyone hallucinating
confusing, suspecting,
living poorly, conspiring.
And everyone
keeps walking, suffering,
waking up, repeating,
imaging.
And everyone, blaspheming,
cursing, betting
heads or tails, improvising.
Desperate and until when
and until when
and until when
and until when
and until when
and until when
and until when