Stones of the Seaboard
Pablo Neruda
Oceanics, you don`t have the matter
that emerges from the vegetal lands
between springtime and the spikes of grain.
The blue touch of the air that navigates
between the grapes doesn`t know the face
that flows to the ocean from solitude.
The face of the pummeled rocks,
that doesn`t know bees, that has
nothing but the agricultura of waves,
the face of stones that accepted
the desolated foam of combat
in its pocked eternities.
Rough ships of hirsute granite
abandoned to the fury, planets
in whose motionless dimension
the sea`s flags arrest their surge.
Thrones of cyclonic elements.
Towers of shaken wilds.
Sea rocks, you possess the victorious
color of time, matter spent
by an eternity in motion….
Fire brought forth these ingots,
which the sea shook with its pomegranates.
This wrinkle in which cooper and brine
merged: this orange-colored iron,
these spots of silver and pigeon,
are the mortal wall and the frontier
of the depths with its clusters.
Stones of solitude, beloved stones
from whose hard cavities
the tumultuous cold of algae hangs
and to whose border embellished by the moon
solitude rises from the seashores.
