The ice of the Northern hemisphere
pierced the memory of my land,
this cold and nostalgic breeze,
brought me a little of your presence,
and there you come strong
scaling the ascent of three decades.
Hence, today I touch you with my words,
with my fragile and warm syllables,
with my gaze and grief,
with anguish anchored in my chest.
Come and tell me, little dove
what happened in October,
there in the capital city,
where Temuco was left afar.
Tell me where is Jacqueline?
where is her body and her memories?
are they sand, sea, foam?
mountains or stars?
while myself here repudiates,
the burying voice,
that by force made her shed her tears.
Tell me, tell me little dove.
If the wind has whispered something new,
or if the nettle continues growing,
after listening to her laments.
Let me know those secrets,
those lived moments.
Bring me those hours of youthful student,
those worn hems,
that small box of embroidering.
Bring me a little of you Jacqueline,
the happy, outspoken and gregarious girl,
the girl, woman and militant,
the wife and the mother.
There is here in this Earth of your laughter,
of your words, of your commitment.
There are your gestures, your gaze and your memory,
your sisters, your struggle and perseverance.
There will be a tree, a left fist,
a shout and a tear.
Come Jacqueline, let us sense you,
Come with your "compañero" Marcelo Saline Eytel,
come with that epoch, with that will
Come coloured of red and black,
with uproar and silence,
approach in that mantle of virtue and commitment.
And here we will be, the humble ones,
waiting for you,
those who do not tire
of so much claiming for you.
Here will be my hands,
together with other hands,
to embrace you