Unity by Pablo Neruda — Read

There is something dense, united, seated in the depths, repeating its number, its identical sign.

How clear it is that the stones have touched time, in their fine substance there is a smell of age and the water that the sea brings from salt and sleep.

I am surrounded by just one thing, a single movement: the weight of the mineral, the light of the honey, they stick to the sound of the word night: the shade of wheat, of ivory, of tears, things of leather, of wood, of wool, aged, faded, uniform things gather around me like walls.

I work silently, wheeling over myself, like the crow over death, the crow in mourning.

I think, isolated in the expanse of the seasons, central, surrounded by silent geography: a partial temperature falls from the sky, an ultimate empire of confused unities gathers surrounding me.