And it was at that age ... Poetry arrived <br />in search of me. I don't know, I don't know where <br />it came from, from winter or a river. <br />I don't know how or when, <br />no they were not voices, they were not <br />words, nor silence, <br />but from a street I was summoned, <br />from the branches of night, <br />abruptly from the others, <br />among violent fires <br />or returning alone, <br />there I was without a face <br />and it touched me. <br /> <br />I did not know what to say, my mouth <br />had no way <br />with names, <br />my eyes were blind, <br />and something started in my soul, <br />fever or forgotten wings, <br />and I made my own way, <br />deciphering <br />that fire, <br />and I wrote the first faint line, <br />faint, without substance, pure <br />nonsense, <br />pure wisdom <br />of someone who knows nothing, <br />and suddenly I saw <br />the heavens <br />unfastened <br />and open, <br />planets, <br />palpitating plantations, <br />shadow perforated, <br />riddled <br />with arrows, fire and flowers, <br />the winding night, the universe. <br /> <br />And I, infinitesimal being, <br />drunk with the great starry <br />void, <br />likeness, image of <br />mystery, <br />felt myself a pure part <br />of the abyss, <br />I wheeled with the stars, <br />my heart broke loose on the wind.<br /><br />Pablo Neruda<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/poetry-2/
