But, just as when a while ago the bishop's lifted hand did not humble me, I stay motionless, and I do not salute.
No, I do not bow in presence of the flag.

It frightens me, I hate it and I accuse it.

No, there is no beauty in it; it is not the emblem of this corner of my native land, whose fair picture it disturbs with its savage stripes.

It is the screaming signboard of the glory of blows, of militarism and war.

It unfurls over the living surges of humanity a sign of supremacy and command; it is a weapon.