From J

I touch hatred like a daily breast,
From clothes to clothes I come incessantly
sleeping far away.

I am not, I am no good, I don’t know anyone,
I have no weapons of sea or of wood,
I do not live in this house.

With night and water my mouth is filled.
The durable moon determines
what I do not have.

What I do have is in the midst of the waves.
a thunderbolt of water, a day for me:
an iron bottom.

There is no countersea, no shield, no suit,
there is no special unfathomable solution,
or vicious eyelid.

I love suddenly and at other times I follow.
I suddenly touch a face and it murders me.
I have no time.

Do not seek, me, then, drawing back
the customary savage thread or the
sanguinary vine.

Do not call me: that is my occupation.
Do not ask my name of my estate.
Leave me in the midst of my own moon,
in my wounded terrain.

– Waltz, Pablo Neruda