“And it was at that age … poetry arrivedin search of me. I don’t know, I don’t know whereit came from, from winter or a river.I don’t know how or when,no, they were not voices, they were notwords, not silence,but from a street it called me,from the branches of night,abruptly from the others,among raging firesor returning alone,there it was, without a face,and it touched me.I didn’t know what to say, my mouthhad no waywith names,my eyes were blind.Something knocked in my soul,fever or forgotten wings,and I made my own way,decipheringthat fire,and I wrote the first, faint line,faint, without substance, purenonsense,pure wisdomof someone who knows nothing;and suddenly I sawthe heavensunfastenedand open,planets,palpitating plantations,the darkness perforated,riddledwith arrows, fire, and flowers,the overpowering night, the universe.And I, tiny being,drunk with the great starryvoid,likeness, image ofmystery,felt myself a pure partof the abyss.I wheeled with the stars.My heart broke loose with the wind.” Pablo Neruda
Posted on: Mon, 21 Oct 2013 09:06:07 +0000
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