The poet facing the sea

There’s a poet in my land
who lived facing the sea,
he loved butterflies,
the rocks and solitude.

With his pupil of perfection
he taught us to observe
the skin of the onion
and Lautaro galloping.

He had a prophet’s voice
and slowness in his walk
and mastheads of great size
watched over his rest.

From a Temuco railway-worker,
a student in Chillán,
a condor in the mountains,
a caribbean captain.

For centuries he loved
the hands of working men,
the flight of the seagull,
black bread and wine.

I won’t tell you that he has gone
but that he is coming back,
it takes time for a people
to again grow up.

There is a poet in my land
who will find no rest
until his entire beloved country
regains its liberty.