by Pablo Neruda （Translated by Clayton Eshleman）

    There is something dense¹， united， settled in the depths，

    repeating its number， its identical sign.

    How it is noted² that stones have touched time，

    in their refined matter there is an odor of age，

    of water brought by the sea， from salt and sleep.

    I'm encircled by a single thing， a single movement：

    a mineral weight， a honeyed light

    cling to the sound of the word "noche"：

    the tint³ of wheat， of ivory， of tears，

    things of leather， of wood， of wool，

    archaic⁴， faded， uniform，

    collect around me like walls.

    I work quietly， wheeling over myself，

    a crow over death， a crow in mourning.

    I mediate⁵， isolated⁶ in the spread of seasons，

    centric， encircled by a silent geometry：

    a partial temperature drifts down from the sky，

    a distant empire of confused unities⁷

    reunites encircling me.

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