Where are the Noble Poets of Santiago?

Neruda wrote his Song of Despair, here
his name was not his own. You, too, 
changed names as the junta staged a coup, 
hid your face behind masks of tears, 
denounced your music as Communistic. 
 
Allende, refugee from Gaza, 
was killed here for our sins, some say 
his own. Mothers searched for their sons 
who fled to Antarctica to write poems 
encrypting their timeworn words no tricky 
 
dicks cut from Republican cloth 
can decrypt, even though, to be fair to
Yankee ingenuity, your father said, 
Pinochet’s mustache was made by the 
CIA. You pawned your watch here to buy 
 
flowers that wilted in your hands when
the gates remained sealed. Dogs barked 
as dogs here did, as dogs in Hebron do
to alert sleepy girls of approaching 
patrols, but in Hebron, gods shoot dogs 
 
for their sport. Lost, confused, unable 
to locate your home: where to start, end? 
Here, you learned to trust all but yourself.
A million sad memories between 
Gaza and Santiago. Poems you wrote 
 
disappeared with the key to your hotel
room, where on a white cloth napkin you
penned your heart, folded it gently, placed 
it in the nightstand: Poets should never die
twice, not even here in Santiago.