Explore "The Celestial Poets" by Pablo Neruda on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
What did you do, you Gideans, intellectualizers, Rilkeans, mystifiers, false existential sorcerers, surrealist butterflies incandescent in the tomb, Europhile cadavers in fashion, pale worms in the capitalist cheese, what did you do confronted with the reign of anguish, in the face of this dark human being, this kicked-around dignity, this head immersed in manure, this essence of coarse and trampled lives?
You did nothing but take flight: sold a stack of debris, searched for celestial hair, cowardly plants, fingernail clippings,
"Pure Beauty," "spells," works of the timid good for averting the eyes, for the confusion of delicate pupils, surviving on a plate of dirty leftovers tossed at you by the masters, not seeing the stone in agony, no defense, no conquest, more blind than wreaths at the cemetery, when rain falls on the flowers still and rotten among the tombs.