Contradicted Communications by Pablo Neruda

Those days led astray my prophetic sense, into my house entered the stamp collectors, and hidden, at all hours of the season, they assaulted my letters, tore from them fresh kisses, kisses subjected to a long maritime residence, and incantations that protected my luck with feminine science and defensive calligraphy.

I lived beside other houses, other persons, and trees tending to the grandiose, pavilions with passionate foliage, emerged roots, vegetal blades, straight coconut trees, and in the midst of these green foams, I would pass with my sharp-pointed hat and a heart completely fictional, with a splendor-heavy stride, because in proportion as my powers eroded and, destroyed in dust, sought symmetry like the cemetery dead, the known places, the extensions scorned up to that hour and the faces that like slow plants sprouted in my abandonment, varied around me with terror and silence, like quantities of leaves overturned by a sudden autumn.