Our borses ar walking to la Hgluera* To m left-the abyss, to the right-the abyss. To think of you, Major, Is not a heavy load. Within me is a silent ache, resembling the earthquake. I am filled with t creeks, of severe, hard rocks. My nerv are tense as the bridle of a cowhand Th rhythm of this poem s ditated by hornehos, stumblng against the stones of this deadly path. Por agutleros around her there are no monuments. Their monuments-roeks. with sad, human faces. The clouds re motionless, like thoughts, like thoughts of the Bolivian mountains. Comandante your precious name they wish to sell so cheaply. *The valge where Che Guevera was killed. With your name industry wants to buy new customer. Comandantel in Paris I saw your portrait on little pants called "hot." Your pictures, Che, are printed on shirts You plunged into the i They want to turn you into smoke. But you fell, riddled by bullets, by poisonous smiles not to become later merchandise for the consumer society. 'Whee is the key to the school?" The peasants give me no answer. I feel the mell of death Ths wall is white like the candle of the boat left abandoned to its fate. The silence is total. Only the buzzard flies. Horse dung-the posthumous chrysanthemums. "Where is the key to the school?' The peasants answer: "We don't know, sir, we don't know...." Where is the key to the ce of Che Guvara? Where s the key to the future? Fear of not finding t, panic grips me, but the key s in our hands- of that I amncertain Boys: to shout promises and not to fulfill them, that's crapl Our own stumbling has deceived the others To the left, boys, always to the left but not beyond the left of your own heart. Omandante, your hands were svered in the square of Valie Gande Comandante, over your death the wild flowers and gultarsr sing But, The young do not surrender, the young, forward Ours are the hands of Ce, they cannot be cut
