Life was not lost, in the piled-up froth of an antarctic light, and in the burrows down over the cliffs. Along the banks of dawn, I had come to the cut of the blade, all these false deaths and all these resurrections, the interstellar void of ultimate steps. Little by little, man came denying me, closing his paths and doors so that I could not touch his wounded inexistence with my divining fingers. The cup trembles with your salt and honey, a wounded marker in the distance, of your crystalline totalities.
Words remixed from various Neruda Poems, with Bucketed driving the soundscapes.
Image by: Sehsucht GmbH