Windsor Guadalupe Jr
Basoalto (To Pablo Neruda, with Reverence)
The yards, the transatlantic
Recognition between the land of Chile,
And here, in the archipelago of the natives,
He came to me, subtly, in the morose aroma.
From Chile, you have gone further
Not only in the mind of the reader,
But through his heart, chained to his soul
He besought my longing,
Like I yearned for his teaching
Likened to a child coming home for supper,
In which the feast basks in impeccable timing.
Look at me now,
In the mirrors that conjure images
And not characters, nor innate attributes, nor appraised topaz and rubies
Then in letters, in pen and ink, shall I make my identity!
Let me live with the breath of life
Your writings uphold, the vileness it loathes
And the love, and the existence of the world's greatest mishap
You have taught me how to love,
Simply, for it begets what others cannot supply
Thus, in the formative years of destruction's kin
Shall I find the enthusiasm, long dead from within.
You are from Chile.
I am from the Island of 8 decadent rays.
I owe all of my days, to you.
In your photographs,
Of austere brown, likened to a dying leaf
It has given me life, life that I have longed for
In the time of all the things that I abhor.
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