With the fire of the garden the sword melted, and my armor is made of its skin;
it shines powerfully by its blessing,
wielding the glory of those who fight;
but still…
I have the wounds of the warrior,
let me enter and rest in your womb,
I raise my wings not to fly, everything so that
you can heal my wounds.
These profane wounds tell my story,
the crimson shines because of that challenges, solid encounters, constant strife; at last the deep cry that tears pride was my only witness.
I have the wounds of someone who arrived alone, wounds of someone who left a past confined to an island, a palm tree, a warm sun, to an old love who was never…
I have the wounds of my brothers who fought,
I kept their wounds in my skin the wounds of the oppressed, the abused, the proletariat, I have the great wound of a people.
I have the wounds of a verse that shoots rose petals, open heart wounds,
wounds that protest,
wounds that demand relief.
I have the wounds that only you can heal,
wounds of the singular warrior, of the warrior who always fights for his great treasure,
one they call freedom.
