Children (2001) by Mario Benedetti In the world there is no abundance of those who kill so mechanically and so coolly with the good aim and useless hatred of American children that tribe of angels that proliferates in the garbage bin of democracy these children that have aged from being so vile play in their workshop of spilled blood they don't know how to cry or run barefoot their burning hearts push them to kill and kill like grown-ups without knowing why they do it and sometimes the birds ask them why they do away with other children but then they don't hesitate / they kill the birds / the stars ask them the same thing and they still don't hesitate / they take aim but the stars shine too far away