"

… Here are my lost hands.
They’re invisible, but you
see them through the night,
through the invisible wind.
Give me your hands, I see them
through the rasping sands
of our American night,
and I choose yours and yours,
that hand and that other hand,
the one that rises to struggle
and the one that’s sown again.

I don’t feel alone in the night,
in the darkness of the land.
I’m people, innumerable people.
I have in my voice the pure strength
to penetrate silence
and germinate in the dark.
Death, martyrdom, shadow, ice,
suddenly shroud the seed.
And the people seem to be buried.
But the corn returns to the earth.
Its implacable red hands
pierced the silence.
From death we’re reborn… .

"

Pablo Neruda. XIII. The Fugitive.
@2 years ago with 39 notes
#Neruda 
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