The War II The flower is a statue, a monument that you touch and then die, and the drizzle of the starry night, the soul of our nations, bangs on the door of the abyss with its ocean that sleeps without its cup. All humanity does not dance for you: the rich with their god-dollar, the elite of the planet, the new slavers, the little ones with their great pantries: these are the ones that invent you. II Ear so that we are afraid, war so that we cannot dream, war so that we never know who gives the orders, war so that we remain without bread. The truth is dead; they deny space to our song.    Castellano Français      No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior written permission of the publisher or, in case of photocopyng or other reprographic copying, a licence from Canadian Reprography Collective (Cancopy), 1 Yonge Street, Suite 1900 Toronto, ON M5E 1E5 Canadá. Ph 800-893-5777 / (416)868-1620 /Fax:(416) 868-1621. -- U.S. requests should be sent to Copyright Clearance Center, Inc. 222 Rosewood Drive Danvers, MA 01923 USA. Ph. 978-750-8400 / Fax 978-750-4470