Hunger in the South by Pablo Neruda — Read

I see the sob in Lota's coal and the humiliated Chilean's wrinkled shadow picking the innards' bitter vein, dying, living, born stooped in the hard ash, fallen as if the world entered and departed so, amid black dust, amid flames, and just the winter cough, a horse moving through black water, where a eucalyptus leaf has fallen like a dead knife.