Un Padre Nuestro Latinoamericano

Our father who art in the heavens,
with the swallows and with the missiles,
I want you to come back before you forget
how to reach the south of Rio Grande.

Our father who art in exile,
almost never remember mine,
anyway, wherever you are,
hallowed be thy name
not those who sanctify in your name
closing one eye to not see the dirty nails of misery.

In June of nineteen seventy-five
it's no use to ask for your kingdom to come to us,
because your kingdom is also down here,
in the resentments and in the fear,
in the hesitations and in the dirt,
in the disillusionment and in the drowsiness,
in this longing to see you despite everything.

When you spoke of the rich, the needle and the camel
and we all voted for you, unanimously, for glory,
the silent Indian also raised his hand
who respected you but resisted thinking thy will be done.
However, once in a while
your will mixes with mine,
dominates it, ignites it, duplicates it,
it's harder to know what my will is
when I truly believe what I say I believe,
in your omnipresence as in my loneliness,
in the earth as in the sky,
I will always be more sure of the earth I step on
than the unapproachable sky that ignores me.

But, who knows, I won't decide
if your power is done or undone.
Your will is being done in the wind,
in the snowy Andes,
in the bird that fertilizes its mate,
in the chancellors who murmur 'Yes sir',
in every hand that turns into a fist.

Sure, I'm not sure if I like the style
that your will chooses to be done;
I say it with irreverence and gratitude,
two emblems that will soon be the same thing.
I say it, above all, thinking of our daily bread
and every bit of day.
Yesterday you took it from us, give it to us today.
Or at least the right to give us our bread,
not just the one that was a symbol of something,
but the bread of crumb and crust,
our bread.

And since we have little hope and debts
forgive us, if you can, our debts,
but do not forgive us hope;
do not forgive us our credits ever.
At the latest tomorrow we will go out to collect from the defaulters,
tangible and smiling outlaws.
To those who have claws for the harp.
It doesn't matter if our creditors forgive
just as we, once, by mistake,
forgave our debtors.
They still owe us like a century of sleepless nights and beatings,
like three thousand kilometers of insults,
like twenty medals to Somoza,
like a single dead Guatemala.

And do not let us fall into the temptation
to forget or sell this past,
or rent a single hectare of its oblivion,
now that it's time to know who we are
and the dollar and its love will cross the river cash on delivery
pluck the soul from the last beggar
and deliver us from all evil conscience.

Amen.