Explore "Atacama" by Pablo Neruda on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
Insufferable voice, disseminated salt, substituted ash, black bouquet on whose extreme dewdrop the blind moon rises, through grieving galleries of copper.
What matter, what hollow swan plunges its naked agony into the sand and hardens its slow liquid light?
What hard thunderbolt shatters its emerald amid the indomitable stones until the lost salt congeals?
Land, land above the sea, above the air, above the gallop of the horsewoman full of coral: heaping granary where wheat sleeps in the bells' tremulous root:
O mother of the ocean! , maker of blind jasper and golden silica: upon your pure skin of bread, far from the forest, nothing but your secret lines, nothing but your sandy brow, nothing but mankind's days and nights, but beside the thistle's thirst, where there's a submerged and forgotten paper, a stone marks the deep cradles of sword and cup, indicates the calcium's sleeping feet.