The Webs We Weave

A new bastion far to the south,  

The iron doors slamming in the reddening faces,

For the third world must fall back on track,  

The trend must have an end!  

We found an end, a means and a meaning, all in one breath,

Augusto's breath.

While we all sat safe on the Potomac, warmed by our high ideals

And all the time we pulled the strings that turned the caravan's wheels.

The "caravan of death".

All is quiet now in the stadium, the crowds have all gone.

Though no whistles were blown and no side won

Where we gather now in silence, not to honour our sporting heroes,

We place photo's and candles on the turf, for Chile's disappearoes.

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