Wednesday, September 07, 2005

Pablo Neruda.

And it was at that age...Poetry arrived
in search of me. I don't know, I don't know where
it came from, from winter or a river.

I don't know how or when,
no, they were not voices, they were not
words, nor silence,
but from a street I was summoned,
from the branches of night,
abruptly from the others,
among violent fires
or returning alone,
there I was without a face
and it touched me.

I did not know what to say, my mouth
had no way
with names
my eyes were blind,
and something started in my soul,
fever or forgotten wings,
and I made my own way,
that fire
and I wrote the first faint line,
faint, without substance, pure
nonsense,pure wisdom
of someone who knows nothing,
and suddenly I saw
the heavens
and open,
palpitating planations,
shadow perforated,
riddledwith arrows, fire and flowers,
the winding night, the universe.
And I, infinitesmal being,
drunk with the great starryvoid,
likeness, image ofmystery,
I felt myself a pure partof the abyss,
I wheeled with the stars,
my heart broke free on the open sky.

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