The Heavenly Poets

What have you done you intellectualists? you mystifiers? you false existentialist sorcerers? you surrealistic poppies shining on a tomb? you pale grubs in the capitalist cheese? What did you do about the kingdom of anguish? about this dark human being kicked into submission? about this head submerged in manure? about this essence of harsh, trampled lives? You didn't do anything but escape you sold piles of debris you looked for heavenly hairs cowardly plants, broken fingernails "pure beauty" "magic". Your works were those of poor frightened folk trying to keep your eyes from looking trying to protect their delicate pupils so you could make for your living a plate of dirty scraps which the masters flung to you. Without seeing that the stones are in agony, without defending, without conquering, blinder than the wreaths in the cemetery when the rain

falls on the motionless rotten flowers on the tomb.

Pablo Neruda
translated by Jodey Bateman