To Search by Pablo Neruda — Read

From the dithyramb to the root of the sea stretches a new kind of emptiness:

I don't want much, the wave says, only for them to stop their chatter, for the city's cement beard to stop growing: we are alone, we want at last to scream, to pee facing the ocean, to see seven birds of the same color, three thousand green gulls, to seek out love on the sand, to break in our shoes, to dirty our books, our hat, our mind until we find you, nothing, until we kiss you, nothing, until we sing you, nothing, nothing without nothing, without being nothing, without putting an end to truth.