i feel like freeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeedom.

I almost thought in my sleep.
I almost dreamed in the dust,
in the falling rain of the dream.
I felt I had old teeth
as I feel asleep; perhaps
little by little I'm changing,
changing into a horse.

I caught the smell of the rough
grass, of the mountain ranges,
and I galloped toward water,
toward the four stormy
stations of the wind.

Good to be a horse
loose in the June light
close to Selva Negra
where the rivers run
tunneling under the turf--
the air there runs a comb
along a horse's flanks
and the language of leaves
moves in the blood.

I galloped that night
without end or country, alone,
coursing through mud and wheat,
dreams and springwater.
I left behind like centuries
the corrugated forests,
the conversations of trees,
the greening capitals,
the families of the soil.

I went back to my own region,
went back to not dreaming
on the street, to being
this grayish traveler
in the world of barbershops,
this me wearing shoes,
with hunger and spectacles,
who doesn't know where
he came from, who is lost,
who gets up in the morning
missing the meadow grass,
who goes to bed sightless
to dream without rain.

The minute they're not looking,
I leave for Renaico.


pablo neruda