O Brother, let me sing you this tune.

As a man dies before a shooting squad, his friend and coleague wishes for him in heaven the piece he couldn't get in life.

Who is thou, who conspires against the strong fist of death, thine humor comes to threat what is beneath and savor what is beyond.

That taste of the last cup, as you approach the squad, rifles in hands, boots tightly dressed, capes quietly shaking on one side of the shoulder, the fascist, the prayer, the priest as he sings a last song, with thee I have no complaints, nothing to ask, for thy life was shattered under a rain of bullets, catching the air before its breath.

Thou shall not listen to the priest, but exceed in thine own prayer, thou’ll fall in the mud together with thousands of souls, and the chanting will continue as the soldiers in the motor-rides run hundreds of miles to the shore, where they’ll bathe in the light of the sun, as thy rotting body, petrified lies in the dirt.

Should I sing thou a song, to relieve thy spirit from anger, contempt, and the lust for life that irrigates the ground as the ravens and the shadows of the tree trunks and the plants that become with thee the filling sorrow of all existence?

O brother, do not cry; you shall live once again, at the steep and at the rain, in the barnyard and with the children you’ll play;

Shall we navigate through the sea for thy servitude, is real and honest and material, thou shalt feel the pain, and the happiness and the rain, as the sharks eat our pray;

Thou’ll laugh, thou’ll cry for life will be fine and dandy. I’ll sing thee this tune, for thou to sleep with thy family, who waits with thee in the stars and the heavens, that quietly and smoothly move away, and away, and away.