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The bullets did not fly into the wind,
They struck, leaving indelible scars,
Blood on the pavement, pain in impure souls,
The bodies fall, but the eyes remain wide open.
The pains we hide become a torment for the oppressed,
A cry that screams the truth of injustice.
They call it an accident, but the accident is a clean version,
A lie in a suit and tie, served on a platter of indifference.
The walls have become loudspeakers of these silent tortures,
Lives shattered beneath muddy boots,
Dreams crushed under the law of silence.
How many more bodies must collapse before we hear?
How many more heads must bow before we stop lowering our eyes?
There is a gap between reality and their truth,
Between power and the dust they trample underfoot.
The sirens of chaos do not sing the praises of peace, they howl with anguish,
Badges, those stars of iron, shine only on the skin of radicalized natives.
But we cling to resistance, like a final breath before the abyss,
For those we call criminals do not wear the same chains.
It is their guilty determination that condemns us,
Their hands full of fear, tears, and wounds, but not remorse.
Lamentations are no longer enough, nor are the images,
The forces of anarchy hide their racist savagery behind shields of lies.
They conceal the hatred of their racial instincts under uniforms with a deceiving shine,
But we see it, the rage, in their eyes that burn justice.
They are not our protectors, they are our jailers,
Their decisions are not the law, they are decrees of death.
And you, up there, do you think amnesia is a strong currency?
Do you believe time erases the pain?
No, history does not forget, the memory of the people weeps,
It screams to those who close their eyes, to those who close their mouths.
It is no coincidence that injustice always makes the same sound,
A sound of blows, of screams that fade.
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