Ode to a Book - Pablo Neruda

When I close a book
I open life.

No book has been able
to wrap me in paper,

to fill me up
 with typography,

with heavenly imprints 
or was ever able 
to bind my eyes,

I come out of books to people
orchards 
with the hoarse family of my song,

to work the burning metals 
or to eat smoked beef 
by mountain firesides.


I love adventurous 
books,
 books of forest or snow, 
depth or sky...
Book, let me go.

I won’t go clothed 
in volumes,

I don’t come out
of collected works, my poems 
have not eaten poems–

they devour
 exciting happenings,

feed on rough weather,
 and dig their food 
out of earth and men.
I’m on my way 
with dust in my shoes free of mythology:

I’m going down into the streets.
I learned about life 
from life itself,

love I learned in a single kiss and could teach no one anything 
except
that I have lived 
with something in common among men,

when fighting with them,
 when saying all their say in my song.