Explore "Brother Bartolomé de Las Casas" by Pablo Neruda on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
On the way home from the union, at night, exhausted in the cold
May fog (in the grinding daily struggle, winter rain dripping from the eaves, the dull throb of constant suffering), one thinks about this masked resurrection, astute, corrupt, of the enslaver, of enslavement, and when grief climbs up to the lock to enter with you, an ancient light shines forth, smooth and hard as metal, like a buried star.