正文 The Dictators

The Dictators

An odor has remained among the sugare:

a mixture of blood and body, a peing

petal that brings nausea.

Between the ut palms the graves are full

of ruined bones, of speechless death-rattles.

The delicate dictator is talking

with top hats, gold braid, and collars.

The tiny palace gleams like a watch

and the rapid laughs with gloves on

cross the corridors at times

and join the dead voices

and the blue mouths freshly buried.

The weeping ot be seen, like a plant

whose seeds fall endlessly on the earth,

whose large blind leaves grow even without light.

Hatred has grown scale on scale,

blow on blow, in the ghastly water of the s,

with a snout full of ooze and silence

Pablo Neruda

(ò﹏ò)

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