I touch hatred like a covered breast;
I without stopping go from garment to garment,
sleeping at a distance.
I am not, I'm of no use, I do not know
anyone; I have no weapons of ocean or wood,
I do not live in this house.
My mouth is full of night and water.
The abiding moon determines
what I do not have.
What I have is in the midst of the waves,
a ray of water, a day for myself,
an iron depth.
There is no cross-tide, there is no shield, no costume,
there is no special solution too deep to be sounded,
no vicious eyelid.
I live suddenly and other times I follow.
I touch a face suddenly and it murders me.
I have no time.
Do not look for me when drawing
the usual wild thread or the
Do not call me: that is my occupation.
Do not ask my name or my condition.
Leave me in the middle of my own moon
in my wounded ground.
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Comments about this poem (Waltz by Pablo Neruda )
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
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Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
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