Pablo Neruda - Serenade

The colour of the popies rests on your forehead,
the mourning veils of widows finds an echo, oh pitying one:
when you run through the fields behind the trains
the lean ploughman turns his back on you,
from your footsteps the gentle toads sprout, trembling.

The young man with no memories salutes you, asking after his lost will,
his hands move in your atmosphere like birds,
and around him is a great moisture:
crossing his unfinished thoughts,
trying to reach something, oh in search of you
his pale eyes flutter in your net
like lost instruments suddenly glittering.

Or I remember the first day of thirst,
the shadow pressed against the jasmines,
the deep body in which you shrank
like a drop also trembling.

But you hush the great trees, and above the moon, out past everything
you keep watch over the sea like a theif.
Oh night, my soul full of fear asks
you desperately for the metal it needs.

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_202, originally uploaded by Q point.

Weak With the Dawn - Pablo Neruda

The day of the luckless, the pale day appears
with a cold heart-breaking smell, with its forces in grey,
with no bells on, dripping from everywhere:
it is a shipwreck in a void, surrounded by weeping.

For the moist shadow went from so many places,
from so many vain objections, from so many earthly halts
where it should have occupied even the design of roots,
from so much sharp form that defended itself.
I weep in the midst of what is invaded, amid the uncertain,
amid the growing savour, lending the ear
to the pure circulation, to the increase,
without direction giving way to what is approaching,
to what issues forth dressed in chains and carnations,
I dream, burdened with my moral remains.

There is nothing sudden, not light-hearted, nor with a proud form,
everything seems to be making itself with obvious poverty,
the light of the earth comes out of its eyelids
not like a bell's ringing, but more like tears:
the fabric of the day, its frail linen,
is good for a gauze for the sick, is good for waving
goodbye, in the wake of an absence:
it is the colour that wants only to replace,
to cover, to engulf, to subdue, to make distances.
I am alone with rickety materials,
the rain falls on me, and it is like me,
it is like me in its raving, alone in the dead world,
repulsed as it falls, and with no persistent form.

-- Pablo Neruda

_029

_029, originally uploaded by Q point.

Alva Noto - Xerrox Tek Pt.1 (Xerrox Vol. 2)

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_203, originally uploaded by Q point.