caetano

The Blow

Ink that enchants me,
Drop after drop,
Guarding the path
Of my reason and unreason
Like the hardly visible
Scar on a wound that shows while the body sleeps
On in the discourse of its destructions.

Better
If the whole of your essence erupted
In a drop, to
Vent itself on a page, staining it now
With a single green star;
Better, perhaps, if that blot
Gathered
My whole scribbling lifetime
Without glosses or alphabets:
A single dark blow
Without words.


Pablo Neruda

My Neruda for the day. What does this all mean?

SAE