Explore "Insurgent America (1800)" by Pablo Neruda on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
Our land-wide land, wilderness- was filled with murmurs, arms, mouths.
A mute syllable kept burning, congregating the clandestine rose, until the meadows shook, trampled by metals and gallops.
Truth was hard as a plowshare.
It broke the earth, established desire, sank in its germinal propaganda, and was born in the secret springtime.
Its flower was silent, its gathering of light repulsed-the collective yeast, the hidden banners' kiss was beaten back, but it rose up breaking the walls, uprooting the jails from the soil.
The dark race, its cup, received the repulsed substance, dispersed it in the marine limits, crushed it in indomitable mortars.
And it emerged with its pages hammered and springtime on the road.
Yesterday's hour, noontime, today's hour again, hour awaited between the minute expired and the newborn, in the bristling age of the lie.
O homeland born of woodcutters, of unbaptized children, carpenters, those who gave, like a rare bird, a drop of winged blood, today you'll be born harshly, whence the traitor and the jailer believe you're submerged forever.
Today, as then, you'll be born of the people.
Today you'll emerge from the coal and the dew.
Today you'll come to shake the doors with bruised hands, with bits of surviving soul, with clusters of expressions that death did not extinguish, with intractable tools hidden beneath your tatters.