The imperialism of the United States/has a wide grave:/there is your dead wife/there your little one/there your cow/there your mare/your field and yo… - Julia de Burgos

I was the quietest one./The voice with almost no echo./The conscience spread in a syllable of anguish,/scattered and tender, through all the silences...I was the quietest one./The one who leapt from earth with no more weapon than a verse./And here you see me, stars,/scattered and tender, with his love in my chest!

It is no longer a song./It is a battlecry./Battlecry of living strength,/of men who struggle,/of minds that free themselves,/of free arms/ready not to fall./The masses roar./They think./They are.

La que juzga mi alma por la piel que me arropa/ni siquiera se extiende lo que alcanza su voz.