The earth is worn and weary,
too tired to sow more death.
The green has faded from the scenery,
and children live with bated breath.
No room remains for hateful tides,
nor silent cowards dressed in grace,
who stroll like kings in business strides,
while blood runs wide with ruthless pace.
No more cheers for ruthless fire,
from soldiers blind in borrowed pride,
no more homes crushed by cruel desire,
no more lost and searching eyes.
No soil left to hold the weight
of women and children cold and torn,
hungry for bread, trapped by fate,
while the world walks on — forlorn.
No more the mindless hunger,
no more the crushing rage —
let now the light of thought grow stronger,
let the wisdom rise from the other — my own face.
— Jesús Hernando Camacho Mosquera
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