Desespediente



The dove is filled with fallen papers,
its chest is marked by gum and days,
by blotters whiter than cadavers
and astonished inks of sinister color.

Come with me to the shadow of administrations,
to the weak, delicate pallid color of the Masters,
to tunnels deep as calendars,
to the painful wheel of a thousand pages.

Let us now examine the titles and conditions,
the special acts, the sleepless ones,
the demands with teeth of a nauseous autumn,
the fury of ashen destinies and sad decisions.

It is a portrait of wounded bones,
bitter circumstances and interminable suits,
and stockings turned sharply serious.
It is the deep night, the head without veins
from where the day falls suddenly
like a bottle broken by a lightning strike.

They are the feet and the watches and the fingers
and a locomotive of moribund soaps,
and a  yellow river of smiles.

Everything arrives at the finger’s tips like flowers,
at nails like lightning, at withered couches,
everything arrives at the ink of death
and at the violet mouth of the bells.

We cry the dysfunction of earth and fire,
the swords, the grapes,
the sexes with their harsh dominion of roots,
the ships of alcohol navigating amongst ships
and the perfume that dances of night, of knees,
dragging a planet of perforated roses.

With the suit of a dog and a stain on the forehead
we fall into the depth of papers,
at the ire of words enchained,
at manifestations tenaciously deceased,
at systems enveloped in yellow leaves.

Come round with me to the offices, to the uncertain
odor of ministrations, and tombs, and seals.
Come with me to the white day that dies
uttering shouts of a murdered bride.


Pablo Neruda