Explore "The Destroyed Street" by Pablo Neruda on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
Through the insulted iron, through the plaster eyes passes a tongue of years different from time. It is a tail of harsh hairs, hands of stone filled with anger, and the color of the houses is hushed, and architectural decisions burst forth, a terrible foot dirties the balconies: slowly, with accumulated shadow, with masks bitten by winter and slowness, the lofty-browed days walk about among moonless houses.
Water and custom and the white mud that the star emits, and especially the air that the bells have struck furiously, exhaust things, touch the wheels, stop in cigar stores, and the red hair grows in the cornices like a long lament, while down to the depths fall keys, clocks, flowers resembling oblivion.