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.
With blood and metal, blue and victorious Proletarian Spain, made of petals and bullets Unique, alive, asleep - resounding. very fine poem. tony
Pablo Neruba was a poet, a diplomat from Chile, who opposed the dictator, crazy Pinochet.
Neruda employs stunning surreal imagery to describe the duelling natures of the Spanish Civil War.
Proletarian Spain, made of petals and bullets Unique, alive, asleep - resounding.../// wondering me
I just traveled Spain - he loves Spain like he loves women- -intimately and to the depth of the soul
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
A man who knew and loved his country.
He isn't even Spanish but yep