"

… 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.
@1 year ago with 39 notes
#Neruda 

"

… Have you seen
in the night your brother’s
somber cave?
Have you fathomed
his sinister life?
The scattered heart
of the people, abandoned and submerged!
Someone who received the hero’s peace
stored it away in his wine cellar, someone
stole the fruits of the bloody harvest
and divided the geography,
establishing hostile shores,
zones of desolate blind shadow.

Glean from the lands the shrouded
throb of sorrow, the solitude,
the wheat of the threshed fields:
something germinates beneath the flags:
the ancient voice calls us again.
Descend to the mineral roots,
and in the desolate metal’s veins
reach mankind’s struggle on earth,
beyond the martyrdom that mauls
the hands destined for the light.
Don’t renounce the day bestowed on you
by those who died struggling. Every spike
is born of a grain seeded in the earth,
and like the wheat, the innumerable people
join roots, accumulate spikes,
and in the tempest unleashed
they rise up to the light of the universe.

"

Pablo Neruda. The Day Will Come.
@2 years ago with 21 notes
#Neruda 
"

… 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.
1 year ago
#Neruda 
"

… Have you seen
in the night your brother’s
somber cave?
Have you fathomed
his sinister life?
The scattered heart
of the people, abandoned and submerged!
Someone who received the hero’s peace
stored it away in his wine cellar, someone
stole the fruits of the bloody harvest
and divided the geography,
establishing hostile shores,
zones of desolate blind shadow.

Glean from the lands the shrouded
throb of sorrow, the solitude,
the wheat of the threshed fields:
something germinates beneath the flags:
the ancient voice calls us again.
Descend to the mineral roots,
and in the desolate metal’s veins
reach mankind’s struggle on earth,
beyond the martyrdom that mauls
the hands destined for the light.
Don’t renounce the day bestowed on you
by those who died struggling. Every spike
is born of a grain seeded in the earth,
and like the wheat, the innumerable people
join roots, accumulate spikes,
and in the tempest unleashed
they rise up to the light of the universe.

"
Pablo Neruda. The Day Will Come.
2 years ago
#Neruda