Land as slim as a whip,
hot as torture,
your step in Honduras, your blood
in Santo Domingo, at night,
your eyes in Nicaragua
touch me, call me, grip me,
and throughout American lands
I knock on doors to speak,
I tap on tongues that are tied,
I raise curtains, I plunge
my hands into blood:
O, sorrows
of my land, O death-rattle
of the great established silence,
O, long-suffering peoples,
O, slender waist of tears.
-Neruda, Centro America
Vientos del pueblo me llevan
Vientos del pueblo me arrastran
Me esparcen mi corazon
Y me aventan la garganta
(People's breaths, like wind, sweep me along
They scatter my heart,
They fill my throat with voices)
-Miguel Hernandez
And a poem that I came across, not for the first time, in the amazing Gioconda Belli's autobiography
We shall not cease from exploration
And the end of all our exploring
Will be to arrive where we started
And know the place for the first time
-T.S. Eliot
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