Explore "Waltz" by Pablo Neruda on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
I touch hatred like a daily breast,
I ceaseless, from clothes to clothes, come sleeping far away.
I am not, I am no good, I don't know anyone,
I have no weapons of sea or of wood,
I do not live in this house.
With night and water my mouth is filled.
The durable moon determines what I do not have.
What I do have is in the midst of the waves.
A thunderbolt of water, a day for me: an iron bottom.
There is no countersea, no shield, no suit, there is no special unfathomable solution, or vicious eyelid.
I live suddenly and at other times I follow.
I suddenly touch a face and it murders me.
I have no time.
Do not seek me, then, drawing back the customary savage thread or the sanguinary vine.
Do not call me: that is my occupation.
Do not ask my name or my estate.
Leave me in the midst of my own moon, in my wounded terrain.