Falling

I call you, milk rose,

duplicate dove of water,

come you from that springtide

to resuscitate in the sheets,

to light up behind winter

day’s erotic sun.

Today in my own circumstance

I am a naked pilgrim

traveling to the church of the sea:

I crossed the salted stones,

followed the discourse of the rivers

and sat down by the bonfire

without knowing what was my destiny.

Surviving the salt,

the stones and the flames,

I kept crossing the regions

sustaining myself with my griefs,

enamored of my shadow.

For that not to be much going

I’ve come to depart from myself.

It is this lying day

of false light overcast,

that made me wan:

I fall into the time of the well

and after swimming underneath

the inexact springtide

I exit to the light in any part

with the same gray hat

playing the same guitar.

Pablo Neruda