La libertad

The word comes to life
when we enter the sea,
the same boat that once
deprived us of freedom
makes the journey back,
to Iquique it will take us.

In the distant exile
a question burned:
what is freedom?
I can't find its face.

Freedom is you,
it's your eyes and your hair,
it's the milk of children,
it's the flag of the people,
it's good morning, ma'am,
it's the tram or the hill,
it's the hopeful song,
it's Neruda in the sleepless night,
(freedom is the paper,
complement to my verses,
it's the grandfather sitting,
the shovel of the miner,)
it's the air, it's the flowers,
it's the journey back,
it's the wandering sailor,
or the one who stayed in Quintero,
it's the night and it's the wine,
it's the freshly laid tablecloth,
it's the man working
in the factory or at the port,
it's the essence of books,
it's the whistle of the wind,
it's not being able to say ever
that freedom has died.