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Thread: Nothing but Death

  1. #1
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    Nothing but Death

    There are cemeteries that are lonely,
    graves full of bones that do not make a sound,
    the heart moving through a tunnel,
    in it darkness, darkness, darkness,
    like a shipwreck we die going into ourselves,
    as though we were drowning inside our hearts,
    as though we lived falling out of the skin into the soul.

    And there are corpses,

    feet made of cold and sticky clay,
    death is inside the bones,
    like a barking where there are no dogs,
    coming out from bells somewhere, from graves somewhere,
    growing in the damp air like tears of rain.

    Sometimes I see alone

    coffins under sail,
    embarking with the pale dead, with women that have dead hair,
    with bakers who are as white as angels,
    and pensive young girls married to notary publics,
    caskets sailing up the vertical river of the dead,
    the river of dark purple,
    moving upstream with sails filled out by the sound of death,
    filled by the sound of death which is silence.


    Death arrives among all that sound

    like a shoe with no foot in it,
    like a suit with no man in it,
    comes and knocks, using a ring with no stone in it,
    with no finger in it,
    comes and shouts with no mouth,
    with no tongue, with no throat.
    Nevertheless its steps can be heard
    and its clothing makes a hushed sound, like a tree.


    I'm not sure, I understand only a little, I can hardly see,

    but it seems to me that its singing has the color of damp violets,
    of violets that are at home in the earth,
    because the face of death is green,
    and the look death gives is green,
    with the penetrating dampness of a violet leaf
    and the somber color of embittered winter.


    But death also goes through the world dressed as a broom,

    lapping the floor, looking for dead bodies,
    death is inside the broom,
    the broom is the tongue of death looking for corpses,
    it is the needle of death looking for thread.


    Death is inside the folding cots:

    it spends its life sleeping on the slow mattresses,
    in the black blankets, and suddenly breathes out:
    it blows out a mournful sound that swells the sheets,
    and the beds go sailing toward a port
    where death is waiting, dressed like an admiral.

    Pablo Neruda

  2. #2
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    Default Re: Nothing but Death

    Too large and hard poetry hai
    but nice



    3297731y763i7owcz zps9ed156a3 - Nothing but Death

    MAY OUR COUNTRY PROGRESS IN EVERYWHERE AND IN EVERYTHING SO THAT THE WHOLE WORLD SHOULD HAVE PROUD ON US
    PAKISTAN ZINDABAD











  3. #3
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    Default Re: Nothing but Death

    very nice
    2j41pxv - Nothing but Death

  4. #4
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    Default Re: Nothing but Death

    animatedthankyougreetingcard - Nothing but Death

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