By Pablo Neruda- Today, these words make sense. They give me goosebumps. They make my blood boil. They make my heart cry. Kashmir, you’ll rise again.
You’ll ask, Where are the lilacs?
And the philosophy dreamy with poppies?
And the rain which kept beating out
With water-specks and birds??
I’m going to tell you everything that happened to me.
I lived in a neighborhood
In Madrid with church bells
And clock towers and trees.
“The house with the flowers” because around it
Geraniums exploded. It was
Frederico, do you still remember
Do you remember my house with the balconies
Where the June light soaked your mouth with
The market place of Arguelles, my neighborhood
With its statue like a pale inkwell among
Loud voices, salty commerce,
Of feet and hands filled the streets,
The sharp essence of life,
The texture of roofs in the cold sun in which
The weather-vane grows tired.
Fine, crazily carved ivory of potatoes
Lines of tomatoes to the sea.
Bandits with airplanes and Moorish troops
Bandits with gold rings and duchesses
Bandits with black monks giving their blessing
Came across the sky to kill children
And through the streets, the blood of children
Ran simply, like children’s blood does.
Jackals that a jackal would reject
Stones that a dry thistle would bite and spit out
Vipers that vipers would hate!
Of Spain rise up against you
To drown you in a single wave
From every shell-hole in Spain
From every dead child a rifle with
From every crime bullets will be born
Which will one day find a place
You ask “Why doesn’t your poetry
Speak to us of dreams and leaves
Of the great volcanoes of your native land?”
See the blood along the streets
The blood along the streets