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Pablo Neruda - What Spain Was Like
Work rating: Medium

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.
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