Before I loved, loved,
Nothing was mine:
wandering the streets, among the items
nothing had no value, as the name had not:
only the air that was waiting world.
I saw Salon in gray,
gallery inhabited by Monday,
ruthless hangers in the division,
questions that insisted in the sand.
Everything was empty, dead, silent,
down, left, left;
everything was foreign, disposal,
others had none, -
while your beauty and poverty
filled with gifts fall.
_P. Neruda.
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