Explore "It Was Not You" by Pablo Neruda on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
It was not you, grave death, raptor of iron plumage, that the drab tenant of such lodgings carried mixed with his gobbled rations under hollow skin- rather: a trodden tendril of old rope, the atom of a courage that gave way or some harsh dew never distilled to sweat.
This could not be reborn, a particle of death without a requiem, bare bone or fading church bell dying from within.
Lifting these bandages reeking of iodine
I plunged my hands in humble aches that would have smothered dying and nothing did I meet within the wound save wind in gusts that chilled my cold interstices of soul.