Neither clown nor child nor black <br />nor white but verticle <br />and a questioning innocence <br />dressed in night and snow: <br />The mother smiles at the sailor, <br />the fisherman at the astronaunt, <br />but the child child does not smile <br />when he looks at the bird child, <br />and from the disorderly ocean <br />the immaculate passenger <br />emerges in snowy mourning. <br /> <br />I was without doubt the child bird <br />there in the cold archipelagoes <br />when it looked at me with its eyes, <br />with its ancient ocean eyes: <br />it had neither arms nor wings <br />but hard little oars <br />on its sides: <br />it was as old as the salt; <br />the age of moving water, <br />and it looked at me from its age: <br />since then I know I do not exist; <br />I am a worm in the sand. <br /> <br />the reasons for my respect <br />remained in the sand: <br />the religious bird <br />did not need to fly, <br />did not need to sing, <br />and through its form was visible <br />its wild soul bled salt: <br />as if a vein from the bitter sea <br />had been broken. <br /> <br />Penguin, static traveler, <br />deliberate priest of the cold, <br />I salute your vertical salt <br />and envy your plumed pride.<br /><br />Pablo Neruda<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/magellanic-penguin/
