neruda sixty-three, butchered

i walked the wastelands, lived on lonely salt rocks,
the only rose i saw was buried by the sea.
bitter: riverbanks, snow,
my high-wire walks across:

ensnared by a lover's whispers, who had abandoned me,
still her kiss imprisons me, my tongue caught on chains,
and yet! the bird must set himself free, thrashing off
into flight with a cry, fly by the loss of his feathers.

the skin poisoned and branded by copper hues, bent
under the weight of salt statues and drifting snow;
i wait for cherries to grow on spring branches.

i will be the black pit inside, stationed in this
home of thirst, quenched by the light of fall
that fosters sour grapes on vines that tower
atop the metallic landscape of snow.