for Victor Jara
( 1932 – 1973 )


his song rose,
above the stadium of death,

his voice rose,
with each tortured breath,

they broke his hands, you see,
the fascists,

tearing his guitar apart,
this man who sang of love,
and of solidarity,
and of peace,

they broke his hands into pieces,

to still the raging strumming,
the strumming that is heard today,

and will be heard tomorrow,

they broke his hands, you see,
pinochet and his thugs,


his song still rose,
high above the shanties,

across the plains,
infused in the soil of Chile,

his song rose,
his song rises still,

Victor Jara’s song always will …