Feb 24
IV The Morning Is Full - Pablo Neruda The morning is full of storm in the heart of summer. The clouds travel like white handkerchiefs of goodbye, the wind, traveling, waving them in its hands. The numberless heart of the wind beating above our loving silence. Orchestral and divine, resounding among the trees like a language full of wars and songs. Wind that bears off the dead leaves with a quick raid and deflects the pulsing arrows of the birds. Wind that topples her in a wave without spray and substance without weight, and leaning fires. Her mass of kisses breaks and sinks, assailed in the door of the summer's wind.