Explore "Almería" by Pablo Neruda on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
A bowl for the bishop, a crushed and bitter bowl, a bowl with remnants of iron, with ashes, with tears, a sunken bowl, with sobs and fallen walls, a bowl for the bishop, a bowl of Almería blood.
A bowl for the banker, a bowl with cheeks of children from the happy South, a bowl with explosions, with wild waters and ruins and fright, a bowl with split axles and trampled heads, a black bowl, a bowl of Almería blood.
Each morning, each turbid morning of your lives you will have it steaming and burning at your tables: you will push it aside a bit with your soft hands so as not to see it, not to digest it so many times: you will push it aside a bit between the bread and the grapes, this bowl of silent blood that will be there each morning, each morning.
A bowl for the Colonel and the Colonel's wife at a garrison party, at each party, above the oaths and the spittle, with the wine light of early morning so that you may see it trembling and cold upon the world.
Yes, a bowl for all of you, richmen here and there, monstrous ambassadors, ministers, table companions, ladies with cozy tea parties and chairs: a bowl shattered, overflowing, dirty with the blood of the poor, for each morning, for each week, forever and ever, a bowl of Almería blood, facing you, forever.