Getaway by Pablo Neruda — Read

I almost thought in my sleep.

I almost dreamed in the dust, in the falling rain of the dream.

I felt I had old teeth as I fell asleep; perhaps little by little I'm changing, changing into a horse.

I caught the smell of the rough grass, of the mountain ranges, and I galloped toward water, toward the four stormy stations of the wind.

Good to be a horse loose in the June light close to Selva Negra where the rivers run tunneling under the turf- the air there runs a comb along a horse's flanks and the language of leaves moves in the blood.

I galloped that night without end or country, alone, coursing through mud and wheat, dreams and springwater.

I left behind like centuries the corrugated forests, the conversations of trees, the greening capitals, the families of the soil.

I went back to my own region, went back to not dreaming on the street, to being this grayish traveler in the world of barbershops, this me wearing shoes, with hunger and spectacles, who doesn't know where he came from, who is lost, who gets up in the morning missing the meadow grass, who goes to bed sightless to dream without rain.

The minute they're not looking,

I leave for Renaico.