So many days you are my brothers Mapuche hunger strike, and this country filled with roasted gluttonous national holiday, with its anniversary banquet for the vile, for long tablecloth meetings that will be given to visitors who come to enjoy imperial salmon pil pil, the rustle guachalomo or papayas with basil that offered the presidency of the right.
Shame is a bitter dish chewing and swallowing difficult, even more so when you know that a group of Mapuche in the south refuse to eat anything as a sign of rejection against injustice. In protest against the bloody anti-terrorism law that has jailed and applied them to defend their ancestral rights. Once again, the Mapuche people is attacked in his own land. I say "own" because I'm talking about their olive green meadows, rolling hills of blue, yellow, pink litmus painting flowers in watercolor this time the southern landscape where once looked indomitable race dawns without sunglasses.
It is shameful to know that this group of people remain imprisoned just for demonstrating against the cultural yoke imposed. And what to do with this anger when we see that the media not report about this protest that could end with a villager died of starvation. Some of them have dizziness and almost do not hold up. Nobody cares much, and the authorities and ministers jet set news comistrajos get fed fine in the palace banquet, which Buddhas obese verbiage. Hope you colitis, diarrhea rotten that drag across the water to the very sea. And even then deletes them look hypocritical smile for the cameras. And even stop chewing his speeches between sofa and couch. They eat and eat and eat themselves into petty tasting their dishes and delicacies. Shit eating and your diet is not to know that the Mapuche group refuses to eat anything, as if this act was a refusal to negotiate, as if this gesture of silence to refuse to take the language of the conqueror. "The contention silence is the standard of a people who gave interviews to the story." Not that silence is consent, there is nothing here that grant or tranza.
Come September 18 and they are preparing for the big meal of the bicentennial. With turkey or pheasant pies with roasted steak, best fish, the minister said, touching her waist cuica fly, biting just an olive stuffed with anchovies. While there in the rainy south mouths shut dying land in their hunger strike. As winter ends, the last rain fell in the capital, also opaque tears roll down her cheek from grandma machi rough. Spring came suddenly, millions on fireworks for centenary vile, see wisps of light to Hollywood from La Moneda. A lattice the Mapuche are the sky. A shiver of guts mark this eighteen. The meat is burning on the grill, white wine custard warms by heat. The giddiness of nausea ancestral distorts the national anthem that is heard in almost all Chilean households.
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