Hornos de Cal
La Vida Boheme
Lime Kilns
We'll stay awake even if the sun goes down, locked in our concrete Eden, and the devil at the door waits for us to break fast and go out for dinner.
Bullet holes open pores in the window, we'll bathe the children in coffee, we'll take shelter behind paper roofs.
Flies form clouds around the altar, shadow and little bread go hand in hand. Thinking is dying without dinner, they planted the lime deep in our veins.
Our lungs breathe in the salt and expand until they burst. New men are born, thirst is inherited, they will live rinsing their eyes in coffee.
For the fathers, for the sons. For the fathers, for the sons. For the fathers, for the sons. For the fathers, for the sons.
