Pablo Neruda

(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973 / Parral / Chile)

What Spain Was Like - Poem by Pablo Neruda

Spain was a taut, dry drum-head
Daily beating a dull thud
Flatlands and eagle's nest
Silence lashed by the storm.
How much, to the point of weeping, in my soul
I love your hard soil, your poor bread,
Your poor people, how much in the deep place
Of my being there is still the lost flower
Of your wrinkled villages, motionless in time
And your metallic meadows
Stretched out in the moonlight through the ages,
Now devoured by a false god.

All your confinement, your animal isolation
While you are still conscious
Surrounded by the abstract stones of silence,
Your rough wine, your smooth wine
Your violent and dangerous vineyards.

Solar stone, pure among the regions
Of the world, Spain streaked
With blood and metal, blue and victorious
Proletarian Spain, made of petals and bullets
Unique, alive, asleep - resounding.


Comments about What Spain Was Like by Pablo Neruda

  • Veteran Poet - 1,753 Points Sally Plumb Plumb (10/1/2010 12:03:00 PM)

    A man who knew and loved his country. (Report) Reply

    2 person liked.
    1 person did not like.
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Poem Submitted: Monday, March 22, 2010



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