Infinite Complaint Poem by Alexandro Johns

Most of the poor people in the world are children,
The Heart of written De Amicis keeps beating on them.

In America, from the South of Río Grande,
infants of few years travel alone to the North,
they go to a kingdom of exclusion and racism.

What I sing is true:
In roads and barracks of Europe
thousands of refugees dying of cold,
the convicted bodies are draging its destiny
without armbands or badges;
this is another holocaust that nobody sees.

My country, to the South of the World,
woke up today with its cold jungles in flames,
and although we always live tragedies as Greek actors,
the crackling of the fire it's broken our souls,
one again poverty covers us with its ashes.

It changes the Earth into us,
we are guilty of our abandonment,
the search for freedom
now become chains over dreams.

The human things are never foreign
if we see men, women and children
like mobiles targets in a barren land
with snipers hidden in the shadows of profit.

No empire has conquered the world forever,
they have only been able to put it in danger
and make the deepest and wide river of History
with the blood that have spilled.

Our journey is very brief,
it's impossible to look the end of the road,
but now my voice denounces an infinite complaint.