In a gunboat outside Santiago
the Americans received the news:
"Allende is dead", and the generals said
"We've made a successful coup."
In the stadium Victor Jara
was recognized by a soldier in charge.
"Are you here to sing?" "Yes I am here to sing."
They took him under guard.
And the years will pass, and the memories fade
and the hands of the poet still forever wave.
Oh, the years will pass, Victor Jara's dead
but the hands of the poet, I can't forget.
No, I can't forget.
With knives they cut off the fingers
that were made to play the guitar.
Six thousand saw his hands bleeding raw.
"Sing now," the soldiers snarled.
And the years will pass, and the memories fade
and the hands of the poet still forever wave.
Oh, the years will pass, Victor Jara's dead.
But the hands of the poet, they're bleeding yet.
They're bleeding yet.
With his bleeding hands he led them,
six thousand united in song;
but the soldiers most fear a vision so clear.
They machine gunned every one of them down.
And the years will pass, and the memories fade
and the hands of the poet still forever wave.
Oh, the years will pass, Victor Jara's dead.
But the hands of the poet, they're waving yet.
They're waving yet.
the Americans received the news:
"Allende is dead", and the generals said
"We've made a successful coup."
In the stadium Victor Jara
was recognized by a soldier in charge.
"Are you here to sing?" "Yes I am here to sing."
They took him under guard.
And the years will pass, and the memories fade
and the hands of the poet still forever wave.
Oh, the years will pass, Victor Jara's dead
but the hands of the poet, I can't forget.
No, I can't forget.
With knives they cut off the fingers
that were made to play the guitar.
Six thousand saw his hands bleeding raw.
"Sing now," the soldiers snarled.
And the years will pass, and the memories fade
and the hands of the poet still forever wave.
Oh, the years will pass, Victor Jara's dead.
But the hands of the poet, they're bleeding yet.
They're bleeding yet.
With his bleeding hands he led them,
six thousand united in song;
but the soldiers most fear a vision so clear.
They machine gunned every one of them down.
And the years will pass, and the memories fade
and the hands of the poet still forever wave.
Oh, the years will pass, Victor Jara's dead.
But the hands of the poet, they're waving yet.
They're waving yet.
envoyé par adriana - 29/3/2007 - 09:44
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Lyrics and music by Rod MacDonald
Testo e musica di Rod MacDonald
da/from "And Then He Woke Up"
rodmacdonald.net