Winter in the South, on Horseback by Pablo Neruda

I've penetrated the bark a thousand times assailed by the austral blows:

I've felt the horse's neck grow numb beneath the cold stone of the South's night, quiver in the naked mountain's compass, ascend in the pale cheek that begins:

I know the end of the gallop in the mist, the poor transient's tatters: and for me there's no god but dark sand, the interminable spine of stone and night, the unsociable day with an advent of miserable clothes, of exterminated soul.