Melancholy in the Families by Pablo Neruda

I keep a blue flask, inside it an ear and a portrait: when night forces the owl's feathers, when the raucous cherry tree shatters its lips and threatens with husks that the ocean wind often penetrates,

I know that there are great sunken expanses, quartz in ingots, slime, blue waters for a battle, much silence, many veins of retreats and camphors, fallen things, medals, acts of tenderness, parachutes, kisses.