Explore "Bread-Poetry" by Pablo Neruda on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
Poetry, my starstruck patrimony.
It was necessary to go on discovering, hungry, with no one to guide me, your earthy endowment, light of the moon and the secret wheat.
Between solitude and crowds, the key kept getting lost in streets and in the woods, under stones, in trains.
The first sign is a state of darkness, deep rapture in a glass of water, body stuffed without having eaten, heart a beggar in its pride.
Many things more that books don't mention, stuffed as they are with joyless splendor: to go on chipping at a weary stone, to go on dissolving the iron in the soul until you become the person who is reading, until water finds a voice through your mouth.
And that is easier than tomorrow being Thursday and yet more difficult than to go on being born- a strange vocation that seeks you out, and which goes into hiding when we seek it out, a shadow with a broken roof and stars shining through its holes.