Esperanza Perdida

¡Que tristeza!
Las Doñas lloran,
en sus vestidas negras
the mists of morning
swirl in the air.

¡Tan joven!
They shriek, and pull their hair
the dark-haired lad lays
pale on the cobblestone
red blood on the barrel
of his father's rifle.

Los irregulares file
iron through the streets.
And the seed of liberty,
planted new,
is crushed 'neath
the heel of combat boots.

Hope had they,
that perhaps,
with the dawning
of the day
the chains of centuries,
long rusted
would clatter free

but such dreams
are just that,
dreams;
and melt away
with the dawning
of the day.