A day of dynamite,They will scatter the roses,A day of my kite,When all is exposed to the air,My thread entangled in my fingers,My vision concealed,The kite cried for aid,As I was preoccupied with seeking help for myself,She was murmuring, “There, Brazil, Pakistan, America”“I’m soaring; he forgot.”“I’m fading, my comrade.”She was unintelligible to me,Brazil arrived there,Only …