I put them in my boat.
It was daylight and France
her fancy dress
of every day she had at that time,
it was
the same clarity of wine and air
her clothes of forest goddess.
My ship expected
with its remote name “Winnipeg”
But my Spanish were not coming
from Versailles,
from the silvery dance,
from the old amaranth carpets,
from the cups chirping
with wine,
no, they were not coming from there,
no, they were not coming from there,
From further away,
from prison camps,
from the black sand
from the Sahara,
from rough hiding places
where they lay
hungry and naked,
there to my clear boat,
to the ship at sea, to hope
they arrived called one by one
by me, from their prisons,
from the fortress
from the shaky France
called by my mouth
arrived,
Saavedra, I said, and came the mason,
Zuniga, I said, and there he was,
Roces, I called, and arrived with grim smile,
I shouted, Alberti! and with hands of quartz
the poetry arrived.
Laborers, carpenters,
fishermen,
turners, machinists,
potters, tanners:
the boat was becoming populated
parting to my homeland.
I felt in my fingers
the seeds
from Spain
that I rescued myself and scattered
over the sea, directed
to the peace
of the prairies.
(Neruda)