Perhaps I've Changed Since Then by Pablo Neruda

I arrived in my country with different eyes which the war had grafted underneath my own, other eyes burned in the bonfire, splashed by my own tears and the blood of the others, and I began to look and to see deeper, into the troubled depths of human connections. The truth which before did not come loose from the sky as a star does changed into a bell.

I realized that it was calling me and that other men were rallying to its call. Suddenly the banners of America, yellow, blue, silver, with sun and star and amaranth and gold, left in my vision naked territories, poor people from fields and roads, frightened farmers, dead Indians, on horseback, gazing without any eyes, and then the terrible maw of the mines with coal, copper, and devastated men, but that was not all in the republics: there was something else, pitiless, unformed.

A man on horseback, a cold arrogance, all his medals stained by martyred blood, or else the gentlemen in the club in their talkative rocking chairs, on the wings of a good life, while the poor anonymous angel, the poor patched-up one, walked from stone to stone and is still walking barefoot and with so little to eat that nobody knows how he survives.