"And I tell you that you should open yourselves to hearing an authentic poet, of the kind whose bodily senses were shaped in a world that is not our own and that few people are able to perceive. A poet closer to death than to philosophy, closer to pain than to intelligence, closer to blood than to ink." - Federico Garcia Lorca
LOVE SONNET NO 6 - Pablo Neruda
In the forests, lost, I cut a dark stick
and lifted its whisper to my thirsty lips:
perhaps it was the voice of crying rain,
a broken bell, or a torn heart.
Something that from so far away seemed
seriously hidden to me, covered by the earth,
a cry deafened by immense autumns,
by the darkness of the leaves, humid and ajar.
But there, waking from the dreams of the forest,
the hazel branch sung below my mouth
and its roaming odor climbed to my view
as if the roots which I had abandoned, the land
lost with my childhood, suddenly came searching for me,
and I stopped, wounded by the wandering aroma.