to all I don’t know, who’ll never
hear this name, to those who live
along our long rivers,
at the foot of volcanoes, in the sulphuric
copper shadow, to fishermen and peasants,
to blue indians on the shore
of lakes sparkling like glass,
to the shoemaker who at this moment questions,
nailing leather with ancient hands,
to you, to whomever without knowing it has waited for me,

I belong and recognize and sing.

—- Pablo Neruda