Ode to the Book

When I close a book

I open life.

I hear

faltering cries

among harbours.

Copper ignots

slide down sand-pits

to Tocopilla.

Night time.

Among the islands

our ocean

throbs with fish,

touches the feet, the thighs,

the chalk ribs

of my country.

The whole of night

clings to its shores, by dawn

it wakes up singing

as if it had excited a guitar.

The oceans surge is calling.

The wind

calls me

and Rodriguez calls,

and Jose Antonio--

I got a telegram

from the "Mine" Union

and the one I love

(whose name I wont let out)

expects me in Bucalemu.

No book has been able

to wrap me in paper,

to fill me up

with typography,

with heavenly imprints

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(＞人＜；)