also have a poem by the great Jorge "Cumpa" Donayre (1921-1987), in which he described in his way, his vision of Peru and to give a real emphasis, titled: (http://www .boletindenewyork.com / carajo.htm)
Viva el Peru Carajo!
Well, the time has come, the awaited moment
century and a half, so that from
the former vessel of my song
remove this cry of mud shaken.
Viva el Peru Carajo! Live
the foaming waves,
on which the story of God came
in cattails and candles challenging.
The long ocean of infinite
submarine, deep people.
The voluptuous whale, gulls,
seaweed, bonito and the humble guanay
has digested a million pounds.
This is my sea, my island, my sand,
my oars, my evenings and my networks.
Viva Peru Carajo! Viva
this stone monument built on
tops
eternity where time does not dare to die.
huaca which went live this race
old grandparents, grandparents
while 8 million highlanders
left up there, pinned to the tops;
and below, bondage cheap
of the houses in Lima, waiters wholesaler,
drunken, muddy people of the slums postponed,
emolienteros, fruit vendors, carters, sweaty public
the arenas,
Chimpún, drills and Shirts dirt.
Viva el Peru Carajo!
This river is Peruvian,
and cradle, a sullen
source located at the top
that empties and fills the sky spell,
dropwise or in stormy rains.
comes in bed with mud and mineral dusts, planting
valleys, pregnant and lighting,
father and mother at the time,
human life and plants,
animals, birds and fish.
Indians, butterflies,
cholos, black, white, milk, roses,
all, all planting the river
descending from the cloud with creative force.
Viva el Peru Carajo! Viva
this forest planted by the Lord,
a cool morning when the flood came,
on your fingers,
shaped his best creation on earth. Here
force unleashed a storm of rain and orchids, green plains
cover
land where rivers and snakes are entwined. Fly
macaws, monkeys chatter
trapeze while, a canoe upriver
crosses on which they are loving Carlos Rumiche and Mary
sure that the river is to bring together
basket of fish, the promised son. Viva
Peruvian man,
that does not scare the harsh geography
that God gave us as an instrument.
About
cataclysmic shocks that shake the foundations of the seas and land planted
, braving earthquakes, new towns, new
houses, traded tears watered the old, orphans
of children, men.
We are subjects of the earthquake and the earthquake.
Viva el Peru Carajo!
also the avalanche, flood, drought,
you know the faces of poverty.
Your landslides, their blood dizziness,
know them from old age.
And to all those comrades in misfortune, there
Pedro and Juana Quispe Flores,
that strength, courage, sweat, hope,
have caught lightning in his hands angry and
have done a mat of love, a hard adobe
red brick, a rustic house, a tower
the majestic profile of a church,
a village, a coastal city and a
or cities saw
continuing to rise and fall without fear of anything.
Viva el Peru Carajo!
To Sucche, commoner,
is this song, this strong fuck
shaken to its roads and its schoolhouse roof,
where the child will learn what is Peru. Live
artisans, miners, farmers harsh
not dwell in Lima
and made the Moon,
an elusive lamparín of kerosene,
on the roof of heaven.
Viva
chullo man who eats only
jerky and drink chicha jars, filled with sadness.
Live your red poncho, sandals your tired, your languid
charango, udders of goats;
tight and hard within their cholas,
your warm milk, full of love and life.
Viva el Peru Carajo!
To Aurelio Celada, foreman of the ranch coast,
is this song of coal and black grapes,
as the best color of his skin.
For it demands hard grind of hard muscles, firmer thighs
their shackles up,
its legends of archangels Zambos, guitarists,
tip markers, center forward, welders roosters, alcatraz
waists and drawer.
Viva el Peru Carajo!
To throw a damn for my country, I asked
cristina borrow your duck to my son Albert
and in the light of a strand of white hair
of my late mother, launched the loud cry
I was born
veins,
life with a roar, bugle
dawn pure heaven.
To throw a damn for my country,
got up in sedition pigeons,
condor claws are now his legs, once delicate pistil
today a spear.
This boy playing a trumpet in July parades,
is John Marino, the son of the mat, mud and reed.
is John Marino, son of the neighborhood, tricycle nephew, cousin of the kebab.
hill on the back of strip cold, hungry,
in the hands and guts
and though he owns only his uniform command
is John Marino, who plays a trumpet in
July parades.
To throw a fuck for my country, lend Juan Marin
trumpet,
your rumbling brass trumpet,
want to throw the world
a chorus of trumpets.
Viva el Peru Carajo! Oh
sullen river. Plain dry Oh, Oh
long coastline, Oh Huascaran Huandoy, eternal snow. Oh calm
mollusk, cactus, stone, Qencco,
Sacsayhuaman, Chavin stone ages. Oh
poncho, lampa, arrow, flute, corn, cloud, gull, lend me your voices
centuries
love to flood the landscape.
Viva el Peru Carajo!
love this hard clay,
Chrysanthemum I love this and I love the smell of rosemary.
Because these old things, concerts, canary,
sketchbooks, ferns and hazy portraits
not mourn my life, but rather, encouraged by
sweaty shirts of my step
and the belligerence of all
say this battle cry:
Viva el Peru Carajo!
Viva Peru!, My country, and especially
this rectangle that is my only land ownership,
where the bones of my mother
even say their prayers preferred
concerns.
Viva Peru!, My homeland, my son,
of my good friends, the woman who loves me
my province, my ruined house.
And when the newspapers say:
Peru lost in football, Peru
the poor country,
came another earthquake,
dried rivers,
will tarnish the politicians, the sun went down
, the harvest was lost,
rang from the back of bones, the cry
powerful men of this land, laden
courage and optimism to say, as if cast
bullets:
Viva el Peru Carajo! ... Viva el Peru Carajo!
Viva el Peru Carajo! ... Viva el Peru Carajo!
Caaaraaaaaaaaajoo Viva el Peru!
