Soldadito Boliviano

Four years have passed and here we are, dismayed, furious even though this death is one of the predictable absurdities. It's shameful to look at the paintings, the armchairs, the carpets. Shameful to feel cold and huddle by the stove as always, to be hungry and eat, such a simple thing. It's shameful the comfort and asthma is shameful when you, commander, are falling, machine-gunned, fabulous, mythical.

Bolivian soldier, Bolivian soldier
Armed with your rifle, an American rifle
An American rifle, Bolivian soldier
An American rifle

Mr. Barrientos gave it to you, Bolivian soldier
A gift from Mr. Johnson to kill your brother
To kill your brother, Bolivian soldier
To kill your brother

You don't know who the dead one is, Bolivian soldier
The dead one is Che Guevara, Argentine and Cuban
Argentine and Cuban, Bolivian soldier
Argentine and Cuban

My guitar is whole, Bolivian soldier
In mourning but it doesn't cry even though crying is human
Even though crying is human, Bolivian soldier
Even though crying is human

It doesn't cry because the time, Bolivian soldier
Is not for tears and handkerchiefs but for machete in hand
But for machete in hand, Bolivian soldier
But for machete in hand

With the copper they pay you, Bolivian soldier
What they sell you, what they buy from you is what the tyrant thinks
Is what the tyrant thinks, Bolivian soldier
Is what the tyrant thinks

Wherever you are, if you are
If you are arriving
It will be a shame if there is no God
But there will be others, of course there will be others
Worthy of receiving you, commander

But learning will be tough, Bolivian soldier
That a brother is not to be killed, that a brother is not to be killed
That a brother is not to be killed, Bolivian soldier
That a brother is not to be killed
That a brother is not to be killed