Ars Poetica by Pablo Neruda — Read

Between shadow and space, between trimmings and damsels, endowed with a singular heart and sorrowful dreams, precipitously pallid, withered in the brow and with a furious widower's mourning for each day of life, ah, for each invisible water that I drink somnolently and from every sound that I welcome trembling,

I have the same absent thirst and the same cold fever, a nascent ear, an indirect anguish, as if thieves or ghosts were coming, and in a shell of fixed and profound expanse, like a humiliated waiter, like a slightly raucous bell, like an old mirror, like the smell of a solitary house where the guests come in at night wildly drunk, and there is a smell of clothes thrown on the floor, and an absence of flowers- possibly in another even less melancholy way- but the truth is that suddenly the wind that lashes my chest, the nights of infinite substance fallen in my bedroom, the noise of a day that burns with sacrifice, ask me mournfully what prophecy there is in me, and there is a swarm of objects that call without being answered, and a ceaseless movement, and a bewildered man.