De Lorca, Federico a los devotos Bolivarianos [ESP-ENG] From Lorca, Federico to the Bolivarian devotees

Desde la oscuridad de mi alma, atrapado entre 4 paredes. Silencio. Vuelvo a los malos hábitos. Madrugar para no hacer nada, escribir para no morir. Así lo escribió Bradbury, los jóvenes bailan para no morir, y los viejos, los viejos, escriben. ![]( El pasado 18 de agosto se cumplieron 88 años del asesinato del poeta Federico García Lorca, cuenta la historia que lo mataron los fascistas. Por comunista y homosexual. Víctima temprana del odio. Un odio tan grande, que tres años de guerra, una posguerra, dictadura eterna, transición, destape y nueva constitución de monárquica democracia no borra. Latente sigue, memorias van y vienen llevando mentiras que cruzan el mar y aunque la censura no lo pudo callar. Sobreviven aquellos Guardias civiles borrachos. Aseguraba mi padre que, por esta sola frase, estuvo censurada toda la obra de Lorca durante la dictadura franquista. Tres palabras en medio del Romance Sonámbulo, aunque la letra del Romance a la guardia civil española tiene miga. Tres palabras que encierran la trágica y triste historia del servicio de la autoridad al orden establecido. La guardia civil española, medio militar y policía, institución de vieja data al servicio de la República con el nombre de guardia de asalto, que fue rebautizada debido al mal cartel por su brutalidad en las arremetidas a caballo contra indefensos manifestantes. Según relatos escuchados en la niñez; arremetían contra la multitud, haciendo que los caballos pisaran a las personas, mientras blandían sables con los que según la tradición popular eran capaces de golpear a sus propios padres y madres.

Tan eficaz era la guardia civil española, que en 1937 en Venezuela, el diplomático Rufino Blanco Fombona, propuso al presidente Eleazar López Contreras, tomarla como modelo para crear un cuerpo policial para su país, Venezuela.
Y así nació la gloriosa Guardia Nacional, hoy Bolivariana. Muy digna hija de la benemérita.
Ejércitos parapoliciales diseñados y moldeados para atacar, someter y controlar a su pueblo. Honor y Gloria de convertirse la mano despiadada, ejército de ocupación garante de la seguridad de la tiranía, que hoy supera a las guerrillas y practica el secuestro y la extorsión de los ciudadanos a su alcance. Aquellos a los supuestamente tenía que defender.
Qué poder tiene el uniforme y las insignias sobre los hombres que los transforma en cuanto los visten. Acaso no es el uniforme, es el poder, la autoridad o hay algo más.
He visto al hombre amable, vestir la bata de médico y al colgarse el estetoscopio, transformarse en sacrosanto sacerdote de la salud y la vida, ordenar sin mediar explicación que tomaras o dejaras de tomar. Despiadado dictador que finge saber, cuando solo repite la propaganda proferida del visitador y no habiendo nada mejor, tragamos.
Rebelde a la autoridad, solo acato la razón, y eso cuando me convence.
Dos horas para el amanecer, falta ponerle título a esta parrafada. Un camarón antes de ponerle alas al viento que las lleve por la colmena y la red. Ojalá sepa bien entender mis palabras, mi amigo, el médico, el que me diagnostico mal, el comisario que dijo la verdad, el guardia con dignidad, el amigo que no piensa igual.
En fin y para concluir, que el desear no es pecado y el que castiga sin piedra, ni palo, no castiga a los malos, solo a los tontos.
Pero de eso escribiré mañana.

And since I don't know English, here begins the translation done with Google Translate. A tool that allows me to communicate with those who don't speak my language.

From Lorca, Federico to the Bolivarian devotees

From the darkness of my soul, trapped between 4 walls. Silence.
I return to bad habits. Getting up early to do nothing, writing so as not to die. That's what Bradbury wrote, young people dance so as not to die, and old people, old people, write.
Source
On August 18th, 88 years have passed since the murder of the poet Federico García Lorca, the story goes that he was killed by the fascists. For being a communist and homosexual.
An early victim of hatred. A hatred so great that three years of war, a post-war period, eternal dictatorship, transition, uncovering and a new constitution of monarchical democracy cannot erase it.
It remains latent, memories come and go carrying lies that cross the sea and although censorship could not silence it. Those drunken Civil Guards survive.
My father assured that, because of this single phrase, all of Lorca's work was censored during the Franco dictatorship. Three words in the middle of the Romance Sonámbulo, although the lyrics of the Romance a la guardia civil española have substance.
Three words that enclose the tragic and sad story of the service of the authority to the established order.
The Spanish Civil Guard, half military and police, an institution of long standing at the service of the Republic with the name of assault guard, which was renamed due to the bad poster for its brutality in the horse attacks against defenseless protesters.
According to stories heard in childhood; They charged into the crowd, causing horses to trample people, while brandishing sabres with which, according to popular tradition, they were capable of hitting their own fathers and mothers.

The Spanish Civil Guard was so effective that in 1937 in Venezuela, the diplomat Rufino Blanco Fombona proposed to President Eleazar López Contreras that he take it as a model to create a police force for his country, Venezuela.
And thus was born the glorious National Guard, today Bolivarian. A very worthy daughter of the well-deserved.
Parapolice armies designed and shaped to attack, subdue and control their people. Honor and Glory of becoming the ruthless hand, an army of occupation that guarantees the security of the tyranny, which today surpasses the guerrillas and practices kidnapping and extortion of the citizens within its reach. Those whom it was supposed to defend.
What power the uniform and insignia have over men that transforms them as soon as they put them on. Maybe it's not the uniform, it's the power, the authority, or is there something else?
I have seen the kind man, put on the doctor's coat and when he hangs up his stethoscope, transform himself into a sacrosanct priest of health and life, ordering without explanation that you take or stop taking. Ruthless dictator who pretends to know, when he only repeats the propaganda uttered by the inspector and there being nothing better, we swallow.
Rebel against authority, I only obey reason, and that when it convinces me.
Two hours to dawn, I need to give a title to this long speech. A shrimp before giving wings to the wind that takes them through the hive and the net. I hope you can understand my words well, my friend, the doctor, the one who misdiagnosed me, the commissioner who told the truth, the guard with dignity, the friend who does not think the same.
In short and to conclude, that wishing is not a sin and he who punishes without stone or stick, does not punish the bad, only the fools.
But I'll write about that tomorrow.