One summer morning, the guerrilla camp Awoke to a beautiful but dead bird, Shot by Comrade Daniel before sunrise, Shot in the left wing and in the neck.   The Red fighter displayed a trophy Of sharp talons and a span of strong wings, Feathered white and brown and black. Its yellow eyes pierced like a conscience.   The hunger related proudly of others He had downed, of others merely wounded. And he noted how good the taste of hawks. Too long have hawks been just meat in marginal   Social existence. How rare a hawk in the sun! I caressed a lingering gentleness of a power, And reminded myself the warrior would change, He and peasants of an old culture understand   That the ethnic minorities now are of new times And struggles and revolutionary purposes; How the hawk now must draw our eyes To the vastness of the sky and the smallness   Of the Cordillera mountains. Meanwhile, how sing Of the bird's task in the weakness of people's war? How image the toiling earth that projects the hawk, Now winsome poetry of our national freedom?