Being like Maize by Pablo Neruda — Read

Being like maize grains fell in the inexhaustible store of lost deeds, shoddy occurrences, from nine to five, to six, and not one death but many came to each, each day a little death: dust, maggot, lamp, drenched in the mire of suburbs, a little death with fat wings entered into each man like a short blade and siege was laid to him by bread or knife: the drover, the son of harbors, the dark captain of plows, the rodent wanderer through dense streets: all of them weakened waiting for their death, their brief and daily death- and their ominous dwindling each day was like a black cup they trembled while they drained.