The Root of the Voice




Every day brings me a suit of surprises
And a new fire to my internal fire
My soul has its trade of sorrows
Like a water of remembrances
Or of trees that stir to resemble the sea
I sense something that rises from my dark regions
Which aspires to return me to the sky
Perhaps to give my yearning to the star which wants to support me
There is an unearthed voice that persists in my dreams
Which comes moving over me from my first days
And has crossed the heavy chain of my ancestors
There is a light of flesh that persists in my nights
That ties together certain souls with its rays
There is a devouring hope
A presage of the height touched by human hands
A presage ascending like a thirsty flower
More powerful than the song in the distance heard by the prisoner
There is something that wants to bring to birth my unborn ways
The pieces ignored by my silent being
So much has remained in insatiable labyrinths
Or the mortal mirrors have been taken away without repair
 in the danger of shadows
There is a notion of tears and warm words
That have also come crossing rivers
And epochs like unearthed cities
There is a toil of roots without sleep
And at the same time a formation of distance
For which we will bleed in certain hours
There is a throbbing of things that will mature darkness
And search out the precise word for living amongst ourselves
They search out their distinct odor as every flower must
Our future will be all of this
And the joy in bells disintegrating in their great sounds

Oh transparency of solitude!
Oh liberty of suspended augur!
Oh filter of the intimate conscience that weeps its destiny!
Have you heard enough by now your very voice
Agonized suspended by certain cells

Without the will to shock . . .
Listen now to the voice of the world
Watch the life that vacillates like a tree calling to the sun
When a man is touching his roots
The earth sings with its astral brothers


Vicente Huidobro