ouço os pássaros ao sabor da queda de uma chuva não esperada
poetry is pure white
poetry is pure white it emerges from water covered with drops is wrinkled, all in heap. it has to be spread out, the skin of this planet has to be ironed out, the sea whiteness; and the hands keep moving, moving, the holy surfaces are smoothed out, and that is how things are accomplishead. Every day, hands are creating the world, fire is married to stell, and canvas, linen, and cotton come back from the skirmishings of the laundries, and out of light and dove is born - pure innocence returns out of the swirl. Pablo Neruda
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