Today the hunt spreads
over Brazil again,
the slave traders’ cold greed
runs in hot pursuit:
on Wall Street they ordered
their porcine satellites
to bury their fangs
in the people’s wounds,
and the hunt began
in Chile, in Brazil, in all
our Americas ravaged
by merchants and executioners.
My people concealed my path,
hid my verses with their hands,
preserved me from death,
and in Brazil the people’s
infinite door closes the roads
where Prestes again
resists the oppressor.
Brazil, may your sorrowing
captain be safekept for you,
Brazil, may you not have
to reconstruct his effigy
from memory, tomorrow,
piece by piece,
to erect it in austere stone,
not having allowed your heart
to savor the freedom that he can
still, still conquer for you, Brazil.

Excerpt From: Neruda, Pablo. “The Poetry of Pablo Neruda.” Farrar, Straus and Giroux,

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