There are poems we never tire of. Poems that protrude goosebumps. Incredibly well-written poems that make you wonder of the poet's ingenious mind; what kind of machine is stitching his words and imagination together?
For me, one of those poems is known as...
The Insect by Pablo Neruda.
From your hips down to your feet, I want to make a long journey
I am smaller than an insect
Over these hills I pass, hills the colour of oats, crossed with faint tracks that only I know, scorched centimeters, pale perspectives.
Now here is a mountain. I shall never leave this. What a giant growth of moss! And a crater, a rose of moist fire!
Coming down your legs, I trace a spiral, or sleep on the way, and arrive at your knees, round hardness like the hard peaks of a bright continent.
Sliding down your feet, I reach the eight slits of your pointed, slow, peninsular toes, and from them I fall down to the white emptiness of the sheet, seeking blindly and hungrily the form of your crucible.