Saturday, November 2, 2013

Pablo Neruda poem written after the Soviet victory at Stalingrad, February 2, 1943 I have written a


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Pablo Neruda poem written after the Soviet victory at Stalingrad, February 2, 1943 I have written about the weather and water, I described the grief and purple uzbekistan reflections, I wrote about the sky and the apple now, I write about Stalingrad My fiancee has already won her scarf and the light of my love enamored, now my heart is on the ground, in the smoke and the light of Stalingrad. I touched my hands twilight blue shirt and defeated today, I touch the dawn of life emerging on the floor of Stalingrad. I know the old man with the pen, temporarily young, slender as a swan gives vent to his notorious pain to my cry for love at Stalingrad. I place my soul where I please. I do not feed me tired paper decorated with ink and ink. I was born to sing Stalingrad. My voice with your heroic dead on your own crushed walls, uzbekistan my voice sounded like the death knell, and the wind seeing you die, Stalingrad. However, American soldiers, white and black as pomegranate fall to the serpent in the wilderness, you're not alone Stalingrad. France, uzbekistan returns uzbekistan to his eternal barricades uzbekistan in a rage banner draping his freshly dried tears. You're not alone, Stalingrad and the great lions of England, flying the raging sea, sink their claws on the brown earth. You're uzbekistan not alone, Stalingrad. uzbekistan Today, under mountains of punishment, like the buried are not alone: with trembling flesh of the dead who touched your forehead, Stalingrad. Your blue steel forged uzbekistan pride, your head crowned planets, your bastion shared bread, your dark border Stalingrad. Your Homeland hammers and laurels, the blood on your snowy splendor, staring Stalin on snow woven to

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