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The poet gives us a gallery full of ghosts shaken by the fire and darkness of his time. The barely audible cry of some bewildered animal far off . The great southern rain, coming down like a waterfall from the Pole, from the skies of Cape Horn to the frontier.Perhaps I didn’t live just in my self, perhaps I lived the lives of others. 1 stumble over a rock, dig up the uncovered hollow, an enormous spider covered with red hair stares up at me, motionless, as huge as a crab ... Going on, I pass through a forest of ferns much taller than 1 am: from their cold green eyes sixty tears splash down on my face and, behind me, their fans go on quivering for a long time ... On this frontier, my country’s Wild West, I first opened my eyes to life, the land, poetry, and the rain.The wild scent of the laurel, the dark scent of the boldo herb, enter my nostrils and flood my whole being . Threads of rain fell, like long needles of glass snapping off on the roofs or coming up against the windows in transparent waves, and each house was a ship struggling to make port in the ocean of winter.This cold rain from the south of the Americas is not the sudden squall of hot rain that comes down like a whip and goes on, leaving a blue sky in its wake.
England Translated from the Spanish, Confieso que he vivido: Memorias, and first published in the United States of America by Farrar, Straus and Giroux, Inc.
Every kind of weapon was used against the Indians, unsparingly: carbine blasts, the burning of villages, and later, a more fatherly method, alcohol and the law.