We will go underground. We hide in the sewers, in shelters, in abandoned houses. In the cracks of the system. We'll take the mountain.
will be like the shadows, we will move quickly and silence. We never atráparéis. When ye have found our hiding places we'll be far, a handwritten note saying goodbye is the only thing we leave behind us. We
organized. Create networks. We messengers and coded language. We will train commands. We will assemble.
yellow planes will extend under the lights dim. Our headquarters will be dark. Wear beards, berets and pipes placed side in the mouth. We note with great red markers on the map our goals.
will hear about us, but you can not see us. We will be everywhere, disguised. We could be anyone. The man who sits next to the meter. The waitress who serves you a beer. Your own children. You will fear.
Some will fall, we know them. It will be tough, so we know. But resistivity to the final confrontation. That day, a day long ago and stormy, we disclose it. We leave our holes and you'd better take confessed because God will not show mercy. Smoke fill your schools and universities. Smoke your fill of museums and ministries. Your official buildings. Smoky public transport and leisure facilities. Smoky everything, everything, until your dead coffins rest.
and tumors will die coughing.
and smoke, by end, where we want.
(This text is published on this humble blog on January 20, 2006, during the first Anti-Tobacco Law. Unfortunately is back in full today. In the picture on Subcomandante Marcos. His favorite pipe not spit lead but smoke. touching. Where is he now?)
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