I am here to tell the story, like the circle of the earth, covered in ritual mud. Wide eyes in the delicacy, of a world filled with dew. You are made of wellsprings, water like vital tears, spread across the planetary night. Let me stay on your banks of your hour without hour, let me sink my hands returning to your maternity, to your coursing river of races. I touched the stone and said: Who is waiting there? And closed my hand, around a fistful of empty glass. And I walked among Zapotec flowers, and the light was tender as a deer, and the shade was like a green eyelid. My land without name, like all-consuming flame, into the cup I drained, into the most tenuous word not yet born in my mouth.
Words remixed from Pablo Neruda’s Selected Poems, along with one word of my own
Image by: Sehsucht GmbH