The International

Played at the end of union rallies,
it was a record crackling at the end of the parade,
the voice of janitors closing the door.
But sung suddenly amidst the tear gas
against the forced dissolution of the charge,
it was the can behind the Today's Newlyweds car,
a violin strummed by a gypsy,
feet in wet shoes, crickets boarding,
the noise of history already happened,
the crash of shutters and rust in the trachea,
exchanging courage, those who had it gave it
until they were left without, the Internationale was our INSTEAD,
no clash occurred only there and at that hour,
but it formed a chain with the rest of the world,
scratching the itch of colonial powers,
of well-fed tyrannies, in uniform and boots.

Played from China to Chile, in Stalingrad,
above the rubble of the Reichstag in Berlin,
it ended among us like a grandmother in a merry-go-round.
It was beautiful, even at her age, when we repeated:
"Future humanity."

She's dead in my arms. It shouldn't be sung anymore.
But if a drunkard whistles it at the cats at night,
if an old tavern bugler blows it again
with all his asthma in his bronchi,
at that moment she will be resurrected.