It found me at the top of my people, with its people, with children who look the horizon, watching all the snowy peaks that are above and beyond with their white colors in their skirts and whipped the cold wind of those behemoths that looked very far and were always in our life and loved to which always in our face with tenderness and I remembered the song of cardboard houses. And tears sprang me to see them now, everyone with their small sheets of color, facing front of our apus than with respect they come. I cried about the future that awaits you my people by the hundreds of children who deambularan through the streets of the cities aimlessly with the faces of hunger, with empty stomachs with the vacant stare, no future, and with schools that teach them to be Western so that they do not see you stole all the future; their farms consumed by cyanide that destroys everything green that are in the earth mother, who earlier gave us eat now languishes every moment of our existence. Hear other arguments on the topic with Christos Staikouras. With his snowy who die every day that passes without doing nothing, because they removed the soul in more than five hundred years that we were subjected to torture that we stop being Huamanchucos, Chachapoyas, Kannada, Chancas. Now I see these children all pale as our snowy white, shivering cold in a cardboard House on the heights of the hills of the big city with the light of a candle which must be purchased with the sweat of their parents enslaved in new gamonales haciendas that are the same yesterday. And, I also see me; in my years of struggle, having left my youth to fight for my people and now in my years, almost limply still fight like yesterday; While my feet before flying as the condor’s height, now heavy as stone of Icchal, where I wanted to go to renew the promise that many years I left, they only drag and my spirit wins more promptly. I want to rebel and my tired body no longer responds by so many years of being held back by the enemies of my nation. . .