To all, to you by Pablo Neruda — Read

To all, to you silent beings of the night who took my hand in the darkness, to you, lamps of immortal light, star lines, staff of life, secret brethren, to all, to you,

I say: there's no giving thanks, nothing can fill the wineglasses of purity, nothing can contain all the sun in the invincible springtime's flags, like your quiet dignity.

I only think that I've perhaps been worthy of so much simplicity, of a flower so pure, that perhaps I'm you, that's right, that bit of earth, flour, and song, that natural batch that knows whence it comes and where it belongs.

I'm not such a distant bell or a crystal buried so deep that you can't decipher, I'm just people, hidden door, dark bread, and when you welcome me, you welcome yourself; that guest repeatedly beaten and repeatedly reborn.

To all, to all, to whomever I don't know, to whomever never heard this name, to those who dwell all along our long rivers, at the foot of the volcanoes, in the sulfuric shadow of copper, to fishermen and farmhands, to blue Indians on the shores of lakes sparkling like glass, to the shoemaker who at this very hour questions, nailing leather with ancient hands, to you, to the one who unknowingly has awaited me,

I belong and acknowledge and sing.