Prick of time

Clock of emotions that are not erased;
hammer of light, sickle of work, prick of time.
The first of May my mother and I sang
—in a low voice—
these words of the “International”:
“Up with those of the spoon,
down with those of the fork;
death to all fascists. (*)
Long live the working arm”.
Oh, yes.
Clock of emotions that are not erased;
hammer of light, sickle of work, prick of time.
Branch and seed of an ancient temple,
put away for the oblivion that awaits us.
Oh, yes, prick of time.
Oh, yes.


(*) In Spanish in the original text.