He gently closed the door
So as not to wake up "Mom"
He threw the Huma
On the couch next to the cat
Sat down in a corner
His head in his hands

Fifty brooms isn't old
What's he going to do with his blue
With his lunchbox, his cap
His whole life was in his bag

He sees all his years of sorrow
And all the grease on his hands
He thinks about his boy
Who wanted to blow it all up
It blew up without him
Without pain and without screams

Where did you see a good God
What's he going to do with his blue
With his worker's arms
His whole life was in his sweat

Why is he thinking about the little one today
It's been ten years since he left
"Hello poor fool
You'll always be a slave"
Well, you see, kid
Today I'm nothing

Not finished worrying
What's he going to do with his blue
With his red flag, his Lenin
His whole life was in his machine

Maybe he'll wake up "Mom"
Tell her "Still no letter
He will come back
He thinks about us, don't worry, over there
in the guerrilla
in Nicaragua"

Shit to men and shit to God
He says as he hangs up his blue
My child understood better than me
The joy of blowing it all up

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