The Word

Was born in the blood.
Grew in the dark body, beating,
And took fight through the lips and mouth.

Farther away and nearer,

Still, still it come

From dead father and from wandering races,

From lands which had turned to stone,

Lands weary of their poor tribes,

For when grief took to the roads.

The people set out and arrived

And married new land and water

To grow their words again,

And so this is the inheritance;

This is the wavelength which connects us

With dead men and the dawning

Of new beings not yet come to light.

By: Pablo Neruda, from The Word. Fully empowered.