Explore "The Rooming House on the Calle Maruri" by Pablo Neruda on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
A street, Maruri.
The houses neither look at nor like each other.
Nevertheless, they are attached, wall to wall, but their windows don't see the street, don't speak.
They are silence.
A paper flies like a grimy leaf from the tree of winter.
The afternoon kindles a sunset. Disturbed, the sky spreads fugitive fire.
Black fog invades the balconies.
I open my book. I write as if I were in the shaft of a mine, a damp abandoned gallery.
I know that now there is nobody, in the house, in the street, in the bitter city.
I am a prisoner with the door open, with the world open.
I am a wistful student lost in the twilight, and I climb to the noodle soup and descend to my bed and the following day.