Powerful death invited me many times: it was like the invisible salt in the waves, and that which its invisible taste disseminated was like something half-sinking, half rising or vast structures made of wind and of snow drifts. To the sharp iron edge I came, to the narrows of the air, to the shroud of farms and stone, to the stellar void of the final footsteps and the dizzying spiral highway: but, wide sea, oh death!, you do not come wave after wave, but like a gallop of nocturnal clarity or like the absolute numbers of the night. You never came to poke around in the pockets, you couldn’t visit without your red dress on: without your rose carpet of clinging silence: without tall and buried legacies of tears. I couldn’t love in every soul a tree With its own small autumn on its back (the death of a thousand leaves,) all the false deaths and resurrections with no earth, no abyss: I wanted to swim in the widest lives, In the most open mouths of rivers, And when little by little man went denying me, Went blocking my way and closing doors so that my streaming hands would never touch their wounded nonexistence, then I went through street after street and river after river, and city after city and bed after bed, and my salty mask crossed through the desert, and in the last humiliated houses, with no lamp, no fire, no bread, no stone, no silence, alone, I rolled on, dying on my own death. HEIGHTS OF MACCHU PICCHU: IV Powerful Death Pablo Neruda For Dave... Shine on my friend, shine on...
Posted on: Wed, 28 Aug 2013 08:24:26 +0000
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