hen I close a book

        I open life.

        I hear

        faltering cries

        among harbours.

        Cnots

        slide dos

        to tocopilla.

        Nigime.

        Among the islands

        our o

        th fish,

        touc, thighs,

        the chalk ribs

        of my try.

        t

        gs to its shores, by dawn

        it wakes up singing

        as if it ed a guitar.

        the os surge is calling.

        the wind

        calls me

        and Ruez calls,

        and Jose Antonio--

        I got a telegram

        from t;Mine" Union

        and the one I love

        ( out)

        expects me in Bucalemu.

        No book has been able

        to    me in paper,

        to fill me up

        ypography,

        s

        or was ever able

        to bind my eyes,

        I e out of books to people orchards

        he hoarse family of my song,

        to als

        or to eat smoked beef

        by mountain firesides.

        I love adventurous

        books,

        books of forest or snow,

        depth or sky

        but e

        the spider book

        in w

        has laid poisonous wires

        to trap the juvenile

        and cirg fly.

        Book, let me go.

        I    go clothed

        in volumes,

        I dont e out

        of collected works,

        my poems

        eaten poems--

        they devour

        exg happenings,

        feed her,

        and dig their food

        out of earth and men.

        Im on my way

        in my shoes

        free of mythology:

        send books back to their shelves,

        Im going doo treets.

        I learned about life

        from life itself,

        love I learned in a single kiss

        and could teag

        except t I have lived

        hing in ong men,

        hem,

        wheir say in my song.
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