Far from Here by Pablo Neruda

India, I didn't love your tattered clothes, your dismantled community of rags.

For years I walked with eyes that wanted to scale the promontories of contempt, amid cities like green wax, amid talismans, pagodas whose bloody pastry sowed terrible spines.

I saw the miserable wretch heaped atop the suffering of his brother, streets like rivers of anguish, tiny villages crushed between the flowers' thick fingernails, and I went in the throngs, a sentry of time, separating blackened scars, tribulations of slaves.

I entered temples, steps of stucco and gemstones, dirty blood and death, and bestial priests, inebriated by the burning stupor, quarreling over coins rolling on the floor, while, O minuscule human being, great idols with phosphoric feet stuck out vindictive tongues, or crushed flowers slipped over a phallus of scarlet stone.