Turn turning

The way jolts cutting

heroic yellow flowers

and goes on parting the hills

opening the sky in gushes:

I go far once again,

to the tangled dampness

of the Nahuelbuta peaks

and in the titanic transit

distance grows upon my clothing

and I go making headway.

Crossing mountain ranges

without knowing how my

longitudinal brow sharpened

and my feet withdrew from the earth

since they were not roots,

but a feast of movement.

To the left the day will forget

the rose rapid and lost

before being inaugurated,

because I must arrive early

at my far circumstances,

to know what the river leaves

at the insistence of the shore

with so many words of stone

like the hair of a horse.

The road runs downward

toward perhaps, toward Coyhaique,

where the water expands

like the violin in a lament.

And I have a nation farther on

where the green ostrich runs

against naval gusts

and the kingdom without gods begins

where ice is clarity.

Pablo Neruda