Explore "The Day Will Come" by Pablo Neruda on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
Liberators, in this twilight of America, in the morning's forsaken darkness,
I give you my people's infinite leaf, the exultation of every hour of struggle.
Blue hussars, fallen in the depths of time, soldiers in whose newly embroidered flags awaken today's soldiers, communists, combatant heirs of the metallurgic torrents, heed my voice born of the glaciers, raised aloft in the daily bonfire through sheer love of duty.
We're from the same land, the same persecuted people, the same struggle encircles the waist of our America:
Have you seen in the night your brother's somber cave?
Have you fathomed his sinister life?
The scattered heart of the people, abandoned and submerged!
Someone who received the hero's peace stored it away in his wine cellar, someone stole the fruits of the bloody harvest and divided the geography, establishing hostile shores, zones of desolate blind shadow.
Glean from the lands the shrouded throb of sorrow, the solitude, the wheat of the threshed fields: something germinates beneath the flags: the ancient voice calls us again.
Descend to the mineral roots, and in the desolate metal's veins reach mankind's struggle on earth, beyond the martyrdom that mauls the hands destined for the light.
Don't renounce the day bestowed on you by those who died struggling. Every spike is born of a grain seeded in the earth, and like the wheat, the innumerable people join roots, accumulate spikes, and in the tempest unleashed they rise up to the light of the universe.