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Ode of Pablo Neruda...
Master of butterflies, sway through trees of shadows of your instant past...
Why did you come to be, in me?--chaos with glimmer, your sadness cries
more than rivers, persuaded by ambition, succomb to lucious breast...
Neftali, rise from memories grave of lillys beside your bed, catering meloncholy,
nurturing sad songs of your ghosts, trembling for the tongue that baptizes in the
name of spirits with wings of feathers cover with tar--Alas, you turn in your tomb
of putrid corpse, resembling the silohette of time lapidary, trying to cease the
moment with a harp and violin, seducing women with thighs of thunder...
after they come...you wither to sea ports awaiting the arrival of your brother;
the poet; "the invinsible man who sings with all men."
Your sadness wears a smile--Nobel Prize recipient, awarded envy and debate...
through seven continents your name was vein, through Chile's cordilleras your
name is praise...poetry was your birth, in Capernaum you rehearse with words
that bless the ignorant and give wisdom to the naive--
A satrap of purgatory, seraphim of poetry lost in the labyrinth of your mind...
establish faith and honor to the spoken word, flower of Punitaqui;
a cupola in my mind...your unrested soul awaits the second coming,
the eschaton in a sarcophagus with detritus of distant loves; your fathom etho.
