Workers!

Might it be possible, that you have never realized what you are, and should be?

Have you not yet grasped, the supremely sad and repugnant role you play when you go, like miserable idiots, to those squares, on those pilgrimages, to those military parades, etc. where you are despised and mocked in a thousand and one ways?

Have you not realized, poor deluded ones, the derision with which you are looked at by those who rob you?

Have you not seen how they stand apart from you, wherever you might show yourselves -- they whom you support and sustain in a thousand ways with your sweat, to whom you give your life, like the sun gives light, as fire gives heat?

Go, yes, poor people, as they refer to you, go to entertain the butcher, go enliven their parties, go be the object of our exploiters’ laughter, go to collect the denigrating phrases with which they name you.

Go to the cathedral to contemplate slack jawed the exuberant, hydropic vitality of the bloodsuckers of the working class; go to contemplate the hypocritical face of those who call us lambs; go, with a sharp eye and an attentive ear, to hear the thousand phrases of the refined hypocrisy of a friar, be he a Castillian swine or a Jaran mastiff.

Go be the mockery of that insatiable beast, of that insatiable hyena, of that cancerous rodent, of that poisonous reptile who is called, to say it straight, the “Bourgeoisie,” a word that perhaps you don’t understand, because it includes everything nefarious, all the infamous, every most disgustingly repugnant imaginable thing that can be conceived by the perverted and bloodthirsty brain of a…man!

Go, but at the very least, be aware of the sad, yes, the very sad role that you will play.

Look, do you see those things they call “religious festivals?,” those with colors and crests? Well, that is the “official balcony,” did you know? Well, there, you are not allowed, they won’t allow you entry, for your clumsy ways, your rough hands (which sustain them), they can’t, nor should they (they say), shake so-and-so’s fine and gloved hand…Bourgeois (puff), of such and such dolled up noblewoman… did you know, little burgess, that you are disregarded and elicit disgust. Do you understand? Disgust!

Do you see that? Look: that which is called soap stick? Well good, that stick is placed there for you, for the workers, you know why? To let them laugh at our clumsy manner, yes, to see us struggle, when we try to reach up towards the miserable prize that refined Bourgeois “gentility” offers us.

Oh! You are hungry! Because of the face of a bourgeois! Expropriate, kill all of that, it’s good and natural, but we must never renounce being men, to be monkeys or puppets instead!

Look at that brother, that comrade of ours, do you see how hard he struggles to climb up? Can you hear the laughter exploding vibrantly? Ah! It’s the beast, it’s the bourgeoisie that delights as a pig delights in mud, as the judge before twenty wretched victims he hopes to send to the scaffold, yes that fierce bourgeoisie, it delights in seeing us, so brutish, so foolish, and thinking: so long as there is such bestiality, I fear nothing and no one.

Have you seen, or heard, how the hyena rolls over shaking, delirious with enjoyment, having sunk its teeth in its victim’s guts as it contemplates its powerlessness, inhaling with anticipating delight the blood vapors as it rolls around in it?
Haven’t you heard it said how the little prince grips his exuberant belly with his dainty hands, laughing convulsively, “royal” lips drooling, gazing with a face still blue and contorted by laughter at the aching face of the wretched buffoon, whom he’s just given a “real” whipping?

Well, in that same way, and with the same noble sorrow, they laugh at that wretched comrade, that is, at us.

But come, do you see that pale and emaciated creature, the face weak and the body lean, tossed, so to speak, into a cycle of stupidity? Do you see it? See its little hat, with refined “art” in front of him, do you see him moving his tender hands shaking without end that hoarse and rasping tool or accordion? Do you hear that music that makes some laugh and others clap? Do you hear it? Well, that music is hunger’s music! That pleasure demands your charity, and those delicate and tender fingers that you see fluttering and feverishly pressing the keys should instead hold a pencil and work at something better, more suited to the age of the person handling them.

But, what, he who you see as still a child (we saw him, he may have been six or seven) has parents perhaps and they feel coerced to send him begging by that society (full of virtuous ladies): that’s how expensive subsistence is! That’s how little they earn!

And tomorrow, a man already, he who today grows like a parasitic plant and lives off public charity (may it be damned) far, very far from the maternal caresses, delivered to himself after having spent the first phase of his life a miserly helot, what will he do when he finds himself without bread, without home, without love? What will he do?

Kill, perhaps. Oh; In that case yes! Society will then throw itself upon him with fury, an incarnate beast, and will send him to a deep and fetid dungeon, at that point yes, this decrepit and corrupted society will have laws, judges and executioners with which to render justice and punishment! And who, I ask, who will punish the society for having stolen the kid’s father, and from the child himself the means of sustenance and education? Who will consider the actions of society to judge, who between society and the child, is criminal? Oh, dynamite! How much rot is there to remove and extirpate!

But enough. Come my brother, come comrade, come, let’s head to that Cathedral at whose doors you and others go to open your mouth, let’s go and I’ll explain what happens there.

You see it, as do I, as does everyone, that we workers are forbidden entry, we are not human, and it’s necessary for us to stick by the gates with the horses; and what? Are we by chance something more than a horse to the bourgeois? No, on my own life, we are but an object of exploitation and service, like a pair of boots or an umbrella, but less, but much less appreciated than a horse or a car; and if you think not, take a look and you will see how they take care of and cover the luxurious trunks in wintertime, while you and I, and all the workers, go seminude, tattered and stiff with cold with our faces gaunt and our stomachs empty, to our dumbfounding jobs.

Do you see? There’s a national holiday today, the squares brimming with unhappy men, who look more like scarecrows, gaunt and skinny as they are. Do you see them, with those costumes and those tools, meant not for work but for death, upon their shoulders? Do you see them, with that colored rag tied to a stick? What do they look like? What could they be? Insane perhaps? No, they are men that the moral and tender bourgeois mercy counts on to give you lead when you ask for bread, and to defend the product of theft enacted day to day upon you, me, and all workers! Oh! And to think these men are our brethren! They should realize it, at least, and that they are enemies to those of us who must greet them with explosions! Damn the society that so forces us, let your regime soon roll and with it the heads of so much of the infamous butcher of humanity!

Look my brother – do you see how the myriad of innumerable candles shine, reverberating in a thousand shimmers? They burn at your expense, and the warmth and clarity they offer goes missing from your home, in the sad and cold winter nights…but listen, do you hear that signal? It’s broadcasting that the gloved rogues who have been beating themselves on their chest in order to better fool you, so that we might imitate them and be caught off guard so they can satiate their bloodlust upon us, their lust on our daughters, and upon our sons their brutal passion for pederasty and sodomy!

Listen, their call rings out and all those mummies or soldiers present their weapons, as if signaling their willingness to kill us for defending them. Do you see them? There they come, get a good look at them, they are all parasites, vampires, thieves and drones of the social hive.

Do you hear? They speak; listen “brother!” They address you as brother! And they are full and you are hungry.

“…the glorious flag of the motherland…” They speak of the motherland, and he whom you see clapping ravenous fury will within a couple of hours be demanding your room’s rent, and woe to you if you don’t have anything to pay with; you, your children, your partner, and their relatives will be put on the street in patriotic confusion.

“…This glorious day…” They call this day glorious because they see us humiliated at their feet, mocked and hungry and they rejoice for that.

See them! There is the bishop with the general, the priest with the congressperson, congratulating one another on their work, that is, on our stupidity.

Let’s go workers, let us leave and never return to such festivities, or better said – mockeries, in which we are humiliated and looked down upon so much as to be called brothers. Let’s go because for them we are the plebes coming to the flag show, for the music, for the rubbish!

Let us go, and when we return let us be ready, with dynamite in our hand ready, and then we’ll see that whole cowardly crew flee, who flee at the dawn of a new day, the spectres that the nightmare of a horrible dream forged overnight!

The nightmare is the bourgeoisie. The new day: Anarchy!

Hooray, for it!
Death to exploitation!
Long live anarcho-communism!
Long live free entreprise!