The central hand

To touch the act, live the transparency

of crystal in fire,

circulate in bronze

even sing with a bell-mouth,

odorous delight

of the plank that whines

like a violin

in the sawmill,

dust of bread

that travels

from the rumorous

conversation of ears

as far as the machine

of the bakers,

to touch the mishap

of coal

in its dead cataract

subdued to the tune

of excavations

even to break up, escape,

combine and revive

in steel

adopting identity

in the pure, the oval-shaped dove

of new motion:

the act,

the act of blood:

circulation of fire:

circuit of the hands:

rose of energy.

Pablo Neruda