With my hand I gather this emptiness,
imponderable night, starry families
a chorus quieter than silence,
a sound of the moon, some secret, a triangle,
a chalk trapezoid.
It is the oceanic night, the third solitude,
a quivering that opens doors, wings,
the profound population that isn’t here
throbs overflowing the names of the estuary.
Night, name of the sea, fatherland, root, rose!
Pablo Neruda
