Antarctica by Pablo Neruda

Antarctica, austral crown, cluster of cold lamps, cinerarium of ice sundered from the earthly skin, church rent by purity, nave opening over the cathedral of whiteness, immolator of shattered glass, hurricane dashed on the walls of nocturnal snow, grant me your double breast stirred by the invading solitude, the channel of terrifying wind masked by all the corollas of an ermine, with all the shipwreck's horns and the white sinking of worlds, or your peaceful breast that cleans the cold like a pure rectangle of quartz, and everything that's not breathed, the infinite transparent matter, the open air, the solitude without land or poverty.

Kingdom of the harshest meridian, whispery motionless ice harp, beside the enemy stars.

All seas are your round sea.

All the Ocean's resistances concentrated their transparency in you, and the salt filled you with its castles, the ice made cities raised on a crystal spire, the wind ranged your salty paroxysm like a jaguar burned by snow.

Your cupolas birthed danger from the glaciers' vessel, and in your desolate dorsal, life is like a vineyard beneath the sea, burning unconsumed, reserving fire for the snow's springtime.