(original version by M. Consuelo Polo Delgado). 
This is not for you, gorgeous felt puppy, which everybody likes. This is for you, bunch of bones, dog without owner, skitish, walking across the tracks of my country, Spain. This is for you, hunting dog, already old, lost your sense of smell, your owner decided not to share with him your useless old age, your life ended with a good shot. You were not so lucky, they did not want to waste a cartridge, were abandoned in the open country, your agony was long, painful, a trap trapped you. This is for you, shepherd dog, fellow in a thousand of suns and stars, maybe the happiest. |
This is for you, involuntary kamikaze, blown up in pieces, victim and innocent accomplice of the wickedness of man against man. This is for you, my friend, that in your endless goodness move your tail to the one who inoculates you with a lethal virus or cuts off a limb in the experimentation bench of a hospital. This is for you, poor abandoned dog, from door to door, begging for some food, your insistent tenderness bothered someone, so you appeared one chilly morning with your body riddled with bullets. This is for you, shelter dogs, piled up waiting for an adoption, without pedigree, the human vanity does not want you. This is for you, already just a skin smashed on the road. For you all, my heart cries. |