words by Pablo Neruda
You come from poverty, from the houses of the South,
from the rugged landscape of cold and earthquake
that offered us— after those gods had tumbled
to thier deaths— the lesson of life, shape clay.
You are a little horse of black clay, a kiss
of dark mud, my love, a clay poppy,
dove of the twilight that flew along the road,
piggy bank of tears from our poor childhood.
Little one, you’ve kept the heart of poverty in you,
your feet used to sharp rocks,
your mouth that didn’t always have bread, or sweets.
You come from the poor South, where my soul began;
in that high sky your mother is still washing clothes
with my mother. That’s why I choose you, compañera.