I saw a man with tears of blood in a wheelchair alone and abandoned in the cement and heat, wrapped in felt like Beuys, dying in the sun like everyone else.
Since being in the "Free World" I've seen horrors daily. And all I've to say is, "Man's inhumanity to man." Over and over and over. And I wonder how they all do it, how does one stop their heart from caring? Their eyes from seeing? Their mind from thinking?
One gun, always one gun too many. One dead, one dead too many.
Joan Jara:
"I don't sing for love of singing
or to show off my voice
but for the statements
made by my honest guitar
for its heart is of earth
and like the dove it goes flying
tenderly as holy water
blessing the brave and the dying
so my song has found a purpose
as Violetta Parra would say
yes, my guitar is a worker
shining and smelling of spring
my guitar is not for killers
greedy for money and power
but for the people who labour
so that future may flower
for a song takes on a meaning
when its own heartbeat is strong
sung by a man who will die singing
truthfully singing his song
I don't sing for adulation
or so that strangers may weep
I sing for a far strip of country
narrow but endlessly deep
in the earth in which we begin
in the earth in which we end
brave songs will give birth
to a song which will always be new"
