by Pablo Neruda Translated by Robert Bly

    There are cemeteries¹ that are lonely，

    graves full of bones that do not make a sound，

    the heart moving through a tunnel，

    in it darkness， darkness， darkness，

    like a shipwreck² we die going into ourselves，

    as though we were drowning inside our hearts，

    as though we lived falling out of the skin into the soul.

    And there are corpses³，

    feet made of cold and sticky clay，

    death is inside the bones，

    like a barking where there are no dogs，

    coming out from bells somewhere， from graves somewhere，

    growing in the damp air like tears of rain.

    Sometimes I see alone

    coffins⁴ under sail，

    embarking⁵ with the pale dead， with women that have dead hair，

    with bakers⁶ who are as white as angels，

    and pensive⁷ young girls married to notary⁸ publics，

    caskets sailing up the vertical⁹ river of the dead，

    the river of dark purple，

    moving upstream with sails filled out by the sound of death，

    filled by the sound of death which is silence.

    Death arrives among all that sound

    like a shoe with no foot in it， like a suit with no man in it，

    comes and knocks， using a ring with no stone in it， with no finger in it，

    comes and shouts with no mouth， with no tongue， with no throat.

    Nevertheless its steps can be heard

    ]and its clothing makes a hushed sound， like a tree.

    I'm not sure， I understand only a little， I can hardly see，

    but it seems to me that its singing has the color of damp violets，

    of violets that are at home in the earth，

    because the face of death is green，

    and the look death gives is green，

    with the penetrating¹⁰ dampness of a violet leaf

    and the somber¹¹ color of embittered¹² winter.

    But death also goes through the world dressed as a broom，

    lapping the floor， looking for dead bodies，

    death is inside the broom，

    the broom is the tongue of death looking for corpses，

    it is the needle of death looking for thread.

    Death is inside the folding cots：

    it spends its life sleeping on the slow mattresses，

    in the black blankets， and suddenly breathes out：

    it blows out a mournful sound that swells the sheets，

    and the beds go sailing toward a port

    where death is waiting， dressed like an admiral

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