Arise to birth with me, my brother.
Give me your hand out of the depthssown by your sorrows.
You will not return from these stone fastnesses.
You will not emerge from subterranean time.
Your rasping voice will not come back,nor your pierced eyes rise from their sockets.
Look at me from the depths of the earth,tiller of fields, weaver, reticent shepherd,
groom of totemic guanacos,mason high on your treacherous scaffolding,
iceman of Andean tears,jeweler with crushed fingers,farmer anxious among
his seedlings,potter wasted among his clays-
-bring to the cup of this new lifeyour ancient buried sorrows.
Show me your blood and your furrow;say to me: here
I was scourgedbecause a gem was dull or because the earthfailed
to give up in time its tithe of corn or stone.
Point out to me the rock on which you stumbled,the wood they used to crucify
your body.Strike the old flintsto kindle ancient lamps,
light up the whipsglued to your wounds throughout
the centuriesand light the axes gleaming with your blood.
I come to speak for your dead mouths.
Throughout the earthlet dead lips congregate,
out of the depths spin this long night to meas if I rode at anchor here with you.
And tell me everything, tell chain by chain,
and link by link, and step by step;sharpen the knives you kept hidden away,
thrust them into my breast, into my hands,like a torrent of sunbursts,
an Amazon of buried jaguars,
and leave me cry: hours, days and years,blind ages, stellar centuries.
And give me silence, give me water, hope.
Give me the struggle, the iron, the volcanoes.
Let bodies cling like magnets to my body.
Come quickly to my veins and to my mouth.
Speak through my speech, and through my blood.
Pablo Neruda
Give me your hand out of the depthssown by your sorrows.
You will not return from these stone fastnesses.
You will not emerge from subterranean time.
Your rasping voice will not come back,nor your pierced eyes rise from their sockets.
Look at me from the depths of the earth,tiller of fields, weaver, reticent shepherd,
groom of totemic guanacos,mason high on your treacherous scaffolding,
iceman of Andean tears,jeweler with crushed fingers,farmer anxious among
his seedlings,potter wasted among his clays-
-bring to the cup of this new lifeyour ancient buried sorrows.
Show me your blood and your furrow;say to me: here
I was scourgedbecause a gem was dull or because the earthfailed
to give up in time its tithe of corn or stone.
Point out to me the rock on which you stumbled,the wood they used to crucify
your body.Strike the old flintsto kindle ancient lamps,
light up the whipsglued to your wounds throughout
the centuriesand light the axes gleaming with your blood.
I come to speak for your dead mouths.
Throughout the earthlet dead lips congregate,
out of the depths spin this long night to meas if I rode at anchor here with you.
And tell me everything, tell chain by chain,
and link by link, and step by step;sharpen the knives you kept hidden away,
thrust them into my breast, into my hands,like a torrent of sunbursts,
an Amazon of buried jaguars,
and leave me cry: hours, days and years,blind ages, stellar centuries.
And give me silence, give me water, hope.
Give me the struggle, the iron, the volcanoes.
Let bodies cling like magnets to my body.
Come quickly to my veins and to my mouth.
Speak through my speech, and through my blood.
Pablo Neruda
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