It is with the voice of the Bible, or the verse of Walt Whitman, that I should come to you,
Hunter, primitive and modern, simple and complicated, with something of Washington and more of Nimrod.
You are the United States, you are the future invader of the naive America that has Indian blood, that still prays to Jesus Christ and still speaks Spanish.
You are the proud and strong exemplar of your race; you are cultured, you are skillful; you oppose Tolstoy.
And breaking horses, or murdering tigers, you are an Alexander-Nebuchadnezzar. (You are a professor of Energy as today's madmen say.) You think that life is fire, t hat progress is eruption, that wherever you shoot you hit the future.
No.
The United States is potent and great.
When you shake there is a deep tremblor that passes through the enormous vertebrae of the Andes.
If you clamor, it is heard like the roaring of a lion.
Hugo already said it to Grant:
The stars are yours. (The Argentine sun, ascending, barely shines, and the Chilean star rises...) You are rich.
You join the cult of Hercules to the cult of Mammon, and illuminating the road of easy conquest,
Liberty raises its torch in New York.
But our America, that has had poets since the ancient times of Netzahualcoyotl, that has walked in the footprints of great Bacchus who learned Pan's alphabet at once; that consulted the stars, that knew Atlantis whose resounding name comes to us from Plato, that since the remote times of its life has lived on light, on fire, on perfume, on love,
America of the great Montezuma, of the Inca, the fragrant America of Christopher Columbus,
Catholic America,
Spanish America, the America in which noble Cuahtemoc said: "I'm not in a bed of roses"; that America that trembles in hurricanes and lives on love, it lives, you men of Saxon eyes and barbarous soul.
And it dreams.
And it loves, and it vibrates, and it is the daughter of the Sun.
Be careful.
Viva Spanish America!
There are a thousand cubs loosed from the Spanish lion.
Roosevelt, one would have to be, through God himself, the-fearful Rifleman and strong Hunter, to manage to grab us in your iron claws.
And, although you count on everything, you lack one thing:
God!{2} there is more than 1 transation of this poem
