Sex

It may be the gynæceum oped

in the year of our years

and sex leaped out the windows,

departments and doors,

and we saw its breasts peeping out

in the celestial timidity

of postcards

until above the scene

women shed their leaves

and an immense wave of nudes

overtook the cathedrals.

Next commerce established

with books, screens, reviews,

the immense empire of ass

even to the inundation of towns

with industrialized sperm.

It was difficult to escape

for love or your labors,

with the yapping behind you

of sex unleashed

deposited in warehouses,

dripping with messages,

catching you in advertisements,

following you on the road

or sprinkling even villages

with its genital aqueduct.

Literature crossed

this century from phallus to phallus

making graceful pirouettes

or falling down in agony

and the books that got dirty

fell in no other pond

but the maimed soul.

To think that with no gardener

fairer was the hirsute garden,

but a dark creeper

rolled up its frightful hair

in the books of misfortune.

And thus was the blank page,

that was like the moon,

transformed into the patrimony

of a sadmost impudicity.

Until we have no books

to read save light

and five syllables of sun

are one nude word

and the reason of our purity.

Pablo Neruda