Si hubieran conocido la lengua de la ciudad, habrían podido preguntar quién hizo al hombre blanco, de dónde salió la fuerza de los automóviles, cómo se sostienen los aviones, por qué los dioses nos negaron el acero.
Pero no conocían la lengua de la ciudad. Hablaban el viejo idioma de los antepasados, que no habían sido pastores ni habían vivido en las alturas de la sierra nevada de Santa Marta. Porque antes de the four centuries of persecution and dispossession, the grandparents of the grandparents of the grandparents had worked the fertile land that the grandchildren's grandchildren's grandchildren had not been known or even seen or heard.
So now they could not make another comment that they were born, in mocking sparks, eyes, looked at those tiny hands of white men, lizard hands and thought, these hands do not know how to hunt, and thought: give only gifts made by others.
were standing in a corner of the capital, the chief and three of his men, without fear. Do not startle the vertigo machine traffic and pedestrians, or giant feared that the buildings could be derived from the clouds and above derrumbárseles. Stroked with the fingertips, their necklaces of teeth and several rounds of seeds, and not let themselves be impressed by the din of the streets. Their hearts are grieved for the millions of citizens who were passed over and under, the sides and front and back, on legs and wheels, full steam, "What would you all their hearts they asked slowly - if we did not leave the sun all day? "
Eduardo Galeano, Vagamundo .
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