MESTISH REVOLT
v4
@Alfredo Assumpção
MESTISH REVOLT
v4
@Alfredo Assumpção
Lyrics
MESTISH REVOLT
The cities agonize unhappily. Their gray buildings observe, above the burnt forests, the bustle and joy, pathetic in the parks. He tries to be more of just a warrior of letters writing about the skeleton of a white dove crossing the expanse of our lives. Our floor is hot and even sulfur. Our God, another suicide. A Coca-Cola is just a black missile that runs through hands and explodes in mouths.
Strolling along is a naked woman, wandering alone, my homeland, dancing to the sound of a cicada. The mixed-race in conflict with the identity. The coins in the pockets of the rich men, leaking out of the pockets of the poorest as a routine. The music in protests change nothing. Our democracy is the first tear of a clown. Our hope is as painful as the mother of socially enslaved mestizos.
And, hauntings on school benches unconsciously fuel yet another revolt.
The blood of my country alone would not fuel any more sacrifices. For always being a good and perennial people, a believing people. Because we believe that everything goes on a ride in tear. And comes back with a smile.
Strikes and parades build a beautiful country full of colored skin, with freedom of expression, conquered with struggle, but without any bloodstains. A guttural cry of hunger echoes for freedom of people in the squares and roads, protecting the acceptance of races, creeds, beliefs, sexes, origin, color... Live life! Long live constitution of free laws! Live the unequal like the equals! Long life to my people becoming all them equal to each other.
The cities agonize unhappily. Their gray buildings observe, above the burnt forests, the bustle and joy, pathetic in the parks. He tries to be more of just a warrior of letters writing about the skeleton of a white dove crossing the expanse of our lives. Our floor is hot and even sulfur. Our God, another suicide. A Coca-Cola is just a black missile that runs through hands and explodes in mouths.
Strolling along is a naked woman, wandering alone, my homeland, dancing to the sound of a cicada. The mixed-race in conflict with the identity. The coins in the pockets of the rich men, leaking out of the pockets of the poorest as a routine. The music in protests change nothing. Our democracy is the first tear of a clown. Our hope is as painful as the mother of socially enslaved mestizos.
And, hauntings on school benches unconsciously fuel yet another revolt.
The blood of my country alone would not fuel any more sacrifices. For always being a good and perennial people, a believing people. Because we believe that everything goes on a ride in tear. And comes back with a smile.
Strikes and parades build a beautiful country full of colored skin, with freedom of expression, conquered with struggle, but without any bloodstains. A guttural cry of hunger echoes for freedom of people in the squares and roads, protecting the acceptance of races, creeds, beliefs, sexes, origin, color... Live life! Long live constitution of free laws! Live the unequal like the equals! Long life to my people becoming all them equal to each other.
Style of Music
Folk music, Bob Dylan's stile
