Would you rather live a passionate life,
With pain, but bliss,
With laughter, but cries,
With joy, but suffering,
Or have peace and steadiness?


In the world of soccer, there is no such thing as the latter,
You either win with euphoria, cries, and laughter,
Or you lose with tears, wails, and pain,
There is no middle way.



If your heart isn’t swinging left and right,
One moment wanting to be ripped out,
And the next pumping pure ecstasy,
You aren’t playing it right.


There’s no such thing as a tranquil soccer player,
At least not the ones that reach the top.

The greatest have left everything on the field,
And in return, the field has given them everything there is to feel.


There are more emotions caught in the grass blades of a field,
Than there will ever be in the seats of a theatre.

And if you don’t see the beauty and pureness of that,
If you don’t get stirred up inside by that,
If that isn’t enough to make your heart pound,
Then steer clear of the field.

The stains of sweat,
The screams of pain,
The breath of exhaustion,

The clanking lead,
The eyes of flame,
The perfect concoction.

Just like the diamond is made in the most brutal circumstances,
A bodybuilder can only be if he takes these chances.

It is a dream, it is a passion, it is a lifestyle,
Suffering at the end worthwhile.

Bodybuilding is not a sport, much more an art,
And the gymnasium is the studio where it takes part.

Where man stares himself in the mirror,
And sees a masterpiece,
And starts carving here a there,
Building piece by piece,

A little more here, a little less over there,
Carve here, build there.

And just like the grand paintings, this art takes years in the making,
Years of discipline will power, and lots of aching.

But in the end, you see the result,
A statue has been built, which is almost occult.

A statue made of muscle, bones, and veins,
Made with discipline, valor, and strains,
Standing on the glory and victory obtained.

Ángel de la Muerte
con tu capa proumhang de terciopelo *****
que vacía esta de materia, pero en esencia es fuerte
y tu guadaña sostenida por una mano huesuda
que siempre hace justicia sin duda.


Que representes lo oscuro, lo infernal, el miedo,

que te vean y seintan temor,

a mi no me importa porque mas allá veo:


Ángel de la Muerte
me haz enseñado a vivir.
Tu oscura presencia me llena de alegría ardiente
y sin ti no podria ni sonreir


Todo lo mío es tuyo,
y sé,
que lo mío no existe
y si me prestas estas cosas un día más,
lo tomaré por centavo jamas.


O ángel, que te llevas contigo el muerto pasado
Y dejas la vida continuar.

Nos quitas los ojos del reloj
y nos los colocas en las manos,
a ver cada arruga y mancha,
y los huesos que se extienden como teclas de un piano

Recuerdanos todos los días del poder del “gracias,”
y llena nuestra vida de gracia

A wasteland.

Everything reaks of havoc.

The leaders have taken all the resources for themselves,

Leaving the ones they were supposed to lead,

With nothing but scraps,

Nothing but the ruins of what could’ve been.


The education, the money, the technology,

They took it all.


Now remains only a wreckage of cement, street lights, and yellow stripes,

Leaving the ones left behind, the people, with no option but to fight like savages to keep themselves alive inside the mess.


They all search for a way to survive like vultures in the harshest of deserts;

Looking for anyone distracted or slower to attack.



Every little open space represents an opportunity for the predator and a weakness from the prey.


On this land, kindness is the greatest of foolish acts, and vicious cunning the greatest of virtues.



The name of this land, you know very well,

And you cross it every day.