Aquellos soldaditos de plomo

Those little lead soldiers

When I was a child, I had a marked
armamentist feeling;
tin tanks, chrome and nickel
and some funny lead reservists,
hand-painted, with red helmets
that were a delight to my childish mind...
...I believed, as I believed in the honor
of the battalion's march inside my room;
I was a general directing the battle,
and the smoke of the shrapnel cradled my passion
for the glorious soldiers who, sword in hand
advanced on that cruel invader
attacking my nation...
...blood of then, spilled blood,
all my childhood defeated by the passing time.
Of the flags, only shreds; of the plumed helmets
only a memory unraveled with pain...
...what happened to us, how did it happen?
What traitor has stolen
the illusion of the heart?
I think I want to close my eyes
to not see the remains of what I so
loved back then.
May the bronze shine return,
may the flags be cleaned;
I want to be a whole row of soldiers marching
and a whole people singing with renewed passion.
I want the honor back
even if there are no victories,
I want to cry with the glory of a military march,
and wave a little flag, in front of a popular army...