Leviathan by Pablo Neruda

Ark, wrathful peace, slippery bestial night, antarctic alien, you won't pass by me displacing your shadowy floe without my one day entering your walls and raising your armor of submarine winter.

Your black fire of an exiled planet crackled South, the territory of your silence that moved algae shook the age of density.

It was just form, magnitude closed by a tremor of the world in which his leathery majesty glides by startled by his own potency and tenderness.

Angry ark lit with torches of black snow, when your blind blood was founded the sea's age slept in gardens, and in its extension the moon dismantled the tail of its phosphorescent magnet.

Life crackled like a blue bonfire, mother medusa, multiplied tempest of ovaries, and all growth was purity, pulsing of a marine tendril.

And so your gigantic rigging was disposed amid the waters like the passage of maternity over blood, and your power was immaculate night that slipped down engulfing the roots.

Deviance and terror shook the solitude, and your continent fled beyond the awaited isles: but terror passed over the globes of the glacial moon, and entered your flesh, assailing wilds that harbored your terrifying extinguished lamp.

The night went with you: it enveloped you, bonded a tempestuous ooze to you and your cyclonic tail churned ice in which the stars slumbered.

O great wound, hot fountain churning its thunder vanquished in the region of the harpoon, stained by the sea of blood, bled white, sweet slumbering beast conveyed like a cyclone of broken hemispheres to the black longboats of grease filled with wrath and pestilence.

O great statue murdered in the crystals of the polar moon, brimming the sky like a cloud of terror that weeps and covers the oceans with blood.