Cry, Neymar! Cry, Brazil!

Cry, Brazil! We should cry, because our great star cried. He sat on the grass, didn't look at the big screen, but knew his image would be there, representing more than 200 million Brazilians. The image of overcoming adversity, of someone who is often persecuted, not for his undeniable talent for playing football, but for his sometimes questionable way of presenting it to the world. His tears could have been in the locker room, in his corner, just like those of millions of other Brazilians who cry and no one sees. But what importance does the crying of someone who isn't a star have? And what fun would it be if the star cried and no one saw?

Cry, Brazil! We should cry too, because the poor boy who dreamed of being a star player was cruelly murdered. The big screen didn't show it, VAR couldn't replay the play, but his image was there! Bloodied and lying on the ground, like someone who had just suffered a violent and criminal foul, which the referee pretended not to see and let the game continue. He's just another one who falls on the pitch of life and the ball keeps rolling. His death could have been heroic, but it didn't happen on a brightly lit stage, with all the spotlights on him. The tears of those who are suffering from his loss will not move an entire nation, nor will it be the subject of an editorial hours later.

Cry, Brazil! We must cry for our rights that are being suppressed and for those of us that are being stolen and sold, by a team of coup plotters who have taken control of the game and bought the referees to favor them at all costs. They play dirty, they go in to break the people in half, they ignore fair play and never receive a red card. All this in front of a passive and perplexed crowd, distracted by any cry that sounds louder and forgets that it is surrounded by a valley of tears of pain, suffering and existential annihilation.

Cry, Brazil! We must cry because hunger is once again ravaging a large part of our population. The streets are once again filled with people from all walks of life, all predominantly the same color. The sparse color of the homeless contrasts sharply with the green and yellow of the flags and the euphoria of those who wear our national team's jersey, playing in favor of inequality and defending their title as the masters of the land. The World Cup will always belong to them, as long as the majority continues to be content with the title of moral champion and doesn't actually enter the fight for the championship.

Cry, Brazil! We must cry because the oppressive system—when it doesn't force us—induces us to cry. It's not enough to strike at democracy; it's necessary to alienate thought, thus preventing any possible reaction. So that our tears become selective and foolish, according to the interests of those who make us cry. In this way, we position ourselves like a team lost on the field, making silly mistakes, butting heads with our own teammates, and letting the opponent overwhelm us with their relentless tactics.

Cry, Brazil! At the end of the game, we should all sit down and cry together. Each for their own reason, each on their own pitch, in front of their own screen and under the gaze of their own audience. And whoever has a reason, but no pitch, screen or audience, let them cry even louder. Who knows, maybe someone will hear you? After all, the squeaky wheel gets the grease!

Cry, Brazil!