| There comes Durruti with a letter in his hand
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| Where it says the miseries of this sovereign people
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| Durruti comes over there with a book in his backpack
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| Where it points the millions that the capital has stolen
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| This is where Durruti comes with fourteen companions
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| And he tells the bosses what the workers want
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| Durruti comes over there with a sheet of paper
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| To tell the soldiers to get out of the barracks
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| There comes Durruti without a carriage and without money
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| Everyone salutes him, peasant and laborer
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| This is where Durruti comes with Noe's tables
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| So that the workers know that there is no country, god or king
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| A new day dawns, sadness in the morning
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| Death wets the streets, of Via Calletana
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| Broken glances, crystal tears
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| A coffin runs through, the popular mass
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| A father with his son, they do not stop watching
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| And the child with his innocence from him to his father from him went to ask
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| Father!!! |
| Who died?
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| Son!!! |
| a humble worker
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| Father!!! |
| what happened to him?
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| Son!!! |
| a bullet killed him
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| The kid is surprised, he can't assimilate
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| He is not a king, he is not a minister nor a military man
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| But the people are in the street to see him bury
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| But the town is crying for the friend who is leaving
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| Father!!! |
| who has killed him?
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| Son!!! |
| you will know it yourself
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| Father!!! |
| Why did they do it?
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| Son!!! |
| for defending your freedom
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| Long live Durruti the workers shouted
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| Long live Durruti the friend of the people
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| Red and black flags, breathless hearts
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| Libertarian throats, singing children of the people
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| Cracks in history, silence the reasons
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| Of those of us who carry a new world in our hearts |