I Accuse by Pablo Neruda — Read

Then I accused the man who had strangled hope,

I called out to America's corners and put his name in the cave of dishonor.

Then they reproached me for crimes, that pack of flunkies and hired hoodlums: the "secretaries of government," the police, wrote their murky insult against me with tar, but the walls were watching when the traitors wrote my name in large letters, and the night erased, with its innumerable hands, hands of the people and the night, the ignominy that they try in vain to cast on my song.

Then they went at night to burn my house (the fire now marks the name of he who sent them), and all the judges joined together to condemn me, to summon me, to crucify my words and punish these truths.

They closed Chile's cordilleras so that I couldn't leave to tell what's happening here, and when Mexico opened its doors to welcome me and protect me,

Torres Bodet, pitiful poet, demanded that I be delivered to the furious jailers.

But my word's alive, and my free heart accuses.

How will it end, how will it end?

In Pisagua's night, jail, chains, silence, the country debased, and this bleak year, year of blind rats, this bleak year of rage and rancor, you ask, you ask me how it will end?