| "The Insect" By Pablo Neruda From your hips to your feet I want to make a long journey. I am smaller than an insect. I go along these hills, they are the color of oats, they have slender tracks that only I know, burnt centimeters, pale perspectives. Here there is a mountain. I'll never get out of it. Oh what giant moss! And a crater, a rose of dampened fire! Down your legs I come spinning a spiral or sleeping en route and I come to your knees of round hardness as to the hard peaks of a bring continent. I slide toward your feet, to the eight openings of your sharp, slow, peninsular toes, and from them to the void of the white sheet I fall, seeking blind and hungry your contour of burning cup! |