t
in t cellar
I once sa mines.
I know
you
believe me
but
it sings
salt sings, the skin
of t mines
sings
hered
by th.
I shose
solitudes
when I heard
the voice
of
t
in t.
Near Antofagasta
trous
pampa
resounds:
a
broken
voice,
a mournful
song.
In its caves
t moans, mountain
of buried light,
translut cathedral,
crystal of the sea, oblivion
of the waves.
And table
in the world,
salt,
powder
sprinkling
vital light
upon
our food.
Preserver
of t
holds of ships,
discoverer
on
the high seas,
earliest
sailor
of ting
byhe foam.
Dust of the sea, in you
tongue receives a kiss
from o night:
taste imparts to every seasoned
dish your o essence;
t,
miniature
cellar
reveals to us
more tiess;
in it, aste finitude.
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