The Clock Fallen Into the Sea by Pablo Neruda

There is so much dark light in space and so many dimensions suddenly yellow because the wind does not fall and the leaves do not breathe.

It is a Sunday day arrested in the sea, a day like a submerged boat, a drop of time assaulted by scales that are fiercely dressed in transparent dampness.

There are months seriously accumulated in a vestment that we wish to smell weeping with closed eyes, and there are years in a single blind sign of water deposited and green, there is the age that neither fingers nor light captured, much more praiseworthy than a broken fan, much more silent than a disinterred foot, there is the nuptial age of the days dissolved in a sad tomb traversed by fish.

The petals of time fall immensely like vague umbrellas looking like the sky, growing around, it is scarcely a bell never seen, a flooded rose, a jellyfish, a long shattered throbbing: but it is not that, it is something that scarcely touches and spends, a confused trace without sound or birds, a dissipation of perfumes and races.

The clock that in the field stretched out upon the moss and struck a hip with its electric form runs rickety and wounded beneath the fearful water that ripples palpitating with central currents.