I cherish the wound you see on the facade of my brow,
Because yesterday was the last day of humanity in my country
So, do not pity my wound, pity my country
Because one thousand generations would be wounded soon,
If we continue this way.
Do not tell Mr. President, please
I don’t want to be jailed
I just want to die with my wound in peace
Though I don’t really trust you too.
In my country, everybody betrays
Including the older generation that calls us fools
Who sleep and forget, that we are their products.
I wonder why the sun smiles on this country
Where human blood is on constant spill
Girls lost their virginity to cruelty
And people laugh, “all women are hypocrites” they say
And children cry without mothers’ breasts.
Please, do not tell Mr. President
Because the other room is a haven
Every other voice is a fiction
And if you try to force reality on him
One thousand generations will suffer tomorrow.
Besides, my country does not really exist
It is a metaphor of illusional catastrophe.