Pay to go inside Neruda's home
A body lies there with no dome.
But right there in the front hall
Lean a fairy against the icy wall.
Oh Endless enigmas had the bard!

Nice and large and calm backyard
Ends In the middle of a rare room
Rare portrait of revelishing gloom.
Up climbing at the weird snail stair
Does make you grasp for some air.
And there's a room with bric-a-brac:

Old and precious books all in a pack.
Dare saying what I liked most of all?
Enjoyed seeing visitors having a ball!

We the mortals touch the metals,
the wind, the ocean shores, the stones,
knowing they will go on, inert or burning,
and I was discovering, naming all the these things:
it was my destiny to love and say goodbye.

The days aren't discarded or collected, they are bees
that burned with sweetness or maddened
the sting: the struggle continues,
the journeys go and come between honey and pain.
No, the net of years doesn't unweave: there is no net.
They don't fall drop by drop from a river: there is no river.
Sleep doesn't divide life into halves,
or action, or silence, or honor:
life is like a stone, a single motion,
a lonesome bonfire reflected on the leaves,
an arrow, only one, slow or swift, a metal
that climbs or descends burning in your bones.

Each in the most hidden sack kept
the lost jewels of memory,
intense love, secret nights and permanent kisses,
the fragment of public or private happiness.
A few, the wolves, collected thighs,
other men loved the dawn scratching
mountain ranges or ice floes, locomotives, numbers.
For me happiness was to share singing,
praising, cursing, crying with a thousand eyes.
I ask forgiveness for my bad ways:
my life had no use on earth.

It was at that age
that poetry came in search of me.

Nothing touches your skin of sweat
(meltdown of oceanic kisses)
when the purple light
whispers to the moon
in silent moonlit clarity