'one day, rainier than other days,
the railwayman, Jose del Carmen Reyes,
climbed aboard the train of death,
and so far has not come back.'

And when you boarded your train, Pablo,
with a steady step,
and your flag and lamp,
the roots of cedars groaned
it's said, and a great golden fish
nosed at the patient rocks
of Isla Negra.

You left a stillness
full of definite birds;
steered with the backbone of a whale
down the tired river where
willows and a bloodied cross
cast shade, sunlight was shattered
by electric screams.

Your fingers reached out
from great hams of fists
to work on wire, unwind the chains,
unyoke the stubborn oxen
from the plough.

Your flag reflected
in the waters of Jarama;
your swinging lamp the flame
of endless departures.


* NB. Better known as Pablo Neruda

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