-Pablo Neruda- You sing, and your voice peels the husk of the days grain, your song with the sun and sky, the pine trees speak with their green tongue: all the birds of the winter whistle. The sea fills its cellar with footfalls, with bells, chains, whimpers, the tools and the metals jangle, wheels of the caravan creak. But I hear only your voice, your voice soars with the zing and precision of an arrow, it drops with the gravity of rain, your voice scatters the highest swords and returns with its cargo of violets: it accompanies me through the sky.
Posted on: Mon, 20 Oct 2014 21:42:56 +0000
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