was in the saltpeter, with the dark heroes,
With which it digs fertilizer and fine snow
In the hard crust of the planet,
And I proudly clasped his earthly hands.
They said: "Look,
Brother, how we live,
Here in «Humberstone», here in «Mapocho»,
In "Ricaventura", in "Paloma",
In "Sugar Loaf", in "Piojillo".
And they showed me their rations
of miserable food,
Their ground floor in the houses,
The sun, the dust, the Vinchucas,
and immense solitude.
I saw the work of the Derripiadores,
They leave mired, in the handle
Of the wood of the shovel,
The whole footprint of his hands.
I heard a voice coming
From the narrow bottom of the pique,
Like a hellish uterus,
and then hover up
A faceless creature,
A dusty mask
of sweat, of blood and of dust.
And he said to me: "Wherever you go,
You speak of these torments,
You speak, brother, of your brother
who lives down in hell. "
Pablo Neruda
