Explore "Rider in the Rain" by Pablo Neruda on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
Elemental waters, walls of water, clover and battered oats, cordage bound in the net of a damp sopping night, savagely spun, earth-rending drops drummed into lament, slant anger slashing sky.
Soaked in aroma the horses gallop underneath water, walloping the water, their red branchwork cleaving it, hair stone and water: and steam like some wild milk clings to a water ridden with fleeting doves.
No daylight is there but deep pools in this hard tropic, this green career and the hooves knit swift earth to swift in the bestial aura of horse-and-rain.
Ponchos, saddles, saddle rugs massed in russet mounds above blazing sulfur loins that pound the forest binding it down.
On and on, and on, go on and on, and on, and on, and on, and o-o-o-on, the riders hurl down the rain, the riders pace beneath bitter nut-trees, the rain twists its everlasting wheat into trembling rays.
There is light from the water, a vague flash spilled on the leaves, and the sounding gallop spawns a flightless earth-wounded water.
Damp bridle, branched arch, pacing on pacing, nighttime plant of fractured stars like ice or moon, cyclone horse spattered with arrows like an icy ghost, bristling with new hands born in the furor, throbbing fruit surrounded by fear and its monarch dreadful banner.