In the depths of the waters the scum lies
resting in impetuous anarchy
but the lands cannot breathe purified
for venom still obstructs arteries.
A nation of a left-wing consciousness
and of a will of nothingness arises
unjust throats claiming in deceit and forgetfulness

I tread now once more into the woods haunt'd of yore,
so desolate, it seems you have all gone to war;
i feel these forests remain'd unchanged for me,
so i may return after each new victory.

Too many children have long degraded these spots,
darkness and evil too many boys he

I am the lone voice of the south
rising high my black banner of hate
I wrap myself in the tempests of night
my hands wield the thunders of rage.
Awakening the firm men of higher deeds
I blow the trumpet of eternal war
to refund the aristocracies and hierarchies of old

With an iron hand and a tame man's mask
the son of winter ruled these lands
a feeble nation of apes resentful
unfit for the lion's sovereignty and majesty
unfit for noble and royal wills like his
an ancient emperor deprived of glorious history.
The liar enemies didn't let

Past Proud Bloody Nights of Argentine
A nation bleeding proudly in the cold hours of dawn
duly cruel leaders and men carrying out the dirty war
annihilating the resentful enemies of the land
executing the master plan under the black veils of the night.
Silent flights of death

In the days of Armageddon, starved souls, greedy bodies
Ready to punish, ready to kill
Sword by sword they stand
Strike on strike, faith is dead
Gog and Magog on Nergal's left hand

See the rust gnaws on Michael's mystic sword
Frozen's the lightning in Jehova's hand

You, boys, prone to the ground before the proudest jew,
you hate christians with religion still on your blood;
don't speak of evil or scorn while crawling on mire,
a counter-lie is no way to tear down a lie.

Your chants of blasphemy spring from weak resentment,
not from the

Filling the nights with base blood, like haughty warriors,
in rightful justice they fought, the groups on Falcons;
times of glorious war were those of the Proceso
when directing the divisions was the stubborn Suárez Mason.

A sense of duty was prompted in Videla,
whilst one

Cold glance of unshaken ice
condemning the herd of resentful ones
opening past and future wounds
with the knowledge of a knife.
Fierce angel of the scythe
who hid under a cunning mask
great warrior of an envenomed nation
treading the court with marble arrogance.
Y