don't read it or be privileged and read it

Alberto Rojas Jimenez Come Flying by Pablo Neruda

Between terrified feathers, between nights
and magnolias and telegrams,
between southerly winds and winds from the sea blowing West,
you come flying.

Under grave-plots and ashes,
under the ice on the snail,
under the remotest terrestrial waters,
you come flying.

Deeper still, between girls under fathoms of water,
blind plants and a litter of fish heads,
deeper, still deeper, among clouds once again
you come flying.

Further than blood or the bones,
further than bread; beyond wines,
conflagrations,
you come flying.
Beyond vinegar's sting and mortality,
between canker and violets,
in your heavenly voice, with the wet on your shoes,
you come flying.

Over drugstores, committees,
over lawyers and navies, wheels
and the reddened extraction of teeth,
you come flying.

Over cities with roofs under water
where notable ladies uncouple the braids of their hair
with lost combs in the span of their hands
you come flying.

Close to the ripening wine in the cellars,
with hands tepid and turbid, quiet,
with gradual, wooden, red hands
you come flying.

Among vanishing airmen
by the banks of canals and the shadows,
beside lilies now buried,
you come flying.

Among bitter-hued bottles,
rings of anise and accidents,
lamenting and lifting your hands,
you come flying.

Over dentists and parishes,
cinemas, tunnels, and ears,
in your newly bought suit, with your eyeballs effaced,
you come flying.

Over that graveyard unmarked by a wall,
where even the mariner founders,
while the rains of your death fall,
you come flying.

While the rain of your fingertips falls,
while the rain of your bones falls,
and your laughter and marrow fall down,
you come flying.

Over the flint into which you dissolve,
flowing fast under time, under winter,
while your heart falls in droplets,
you come flying.

You are no longer there in that ring of cement,
hemmed in by the black-hearted notaries
or the horseman's maniacal bones:
you come flying.

Oh, sea-poppy, my kinsman,
bee-clothed guitarist,
all the shadows that blacken your hair are a lie:
you come flying.

All the shades that pursue you, a lie:
all the death-stricken swallows, a lie:
all the darkening zone of lament:
you come flying.

A black wind from Valparaiso
spreads the charcoal and foam of its wings
sweeping away the sky where you pass:
you come flying.

There are mists and the chill of dead water,
and whistles and months and the smell
of the rain in the morning and the swill of the fishes:
you come flying.

There's rum, too, between us, you and I and the soul that I mourn in,
and nobody, nothing at all but a staircase
with all the treads broken, and a single umbrella:
you come flying.

And always the sea, there. I go down in the night and I hear you
come flying, under water, alone,
under the sea that inhabits me, darkly:
you come flying.

I listen for wings and your slow elevation,
while the torrents of all who have perished assail me,
blind doves flying sodden:
you come flying.

You come flying, alone, in your solitude,
alone with the dead, alone in eternity,
shadowless, nameless, you come flying
without sweets, or a mouth, or a thicket of roses,
you come flying.