Canto XII from ts of Maccrong>
Arise to birther.
Give me your of ths
sown by your sorrows.
You return from tone fastnesses.
You emerge from subterranean time.
Your rasping voice come back,
nor your pierced eyes rise from ts.
Look at me from th,
tiller of fields, icent shepherd,
groom of totemic guanacos,
mason reacherous scaffolding,
iceman of Andean tears,
jeh crushed fingers,
farmer anxious among his seedlings,
potter ed among his clays--
bring to this new life
your ancient buried sorrows.
Show me your blood and your furrow;
say to me: here I was scourged
because a gem h
failed to give up in time its titone.
Point out to me tumbled,
to crucify your body.
Strike ts
to kindle ancient lamps, lighe whips
glued to your turies
and ligh your blood.
I come to speak for your dead mouths.
t th
let dead lips congregate,
out of t to me
as if I rode at anch you.
And tell me everytell chain by chain,
and link by link, and step by step;
s hidden away,
t to my breast, into my hands,
like a torrent of sunbursts,
an Amazon of buried jaguars,
and leave me cry: hours, days and years,
blind ages, stellar centuries.
And give me silence, give me er, hope.
Give me truggle, the volcanoes.
Let bodies cling like magnets to my body.
Come quickly to my veins and to my mouth.
Speak through my blood.