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Poetry by Pablo Neruda And it was at that time... Poetry came to find me. Don�t know, don�t know from where, it leapt, winter or the river. Don�t know how or when no, not words, not voices, not silence, but I was called from the street, from the branches of the night, suddenly, from the others, in violent flames, or coming back alone, I, without a face, it touched me. I did not know how to say, my mouth no names, my eyes were blind, and something began in my soul, fever or lost wings, and I made it alone, deciphering, that fire, and I wrote the first, vague line, vague, without a body, pure nonsense, pure knowledge, of he who knows nothing, and suddenly saw the sky unlock and open, planets, pulsating spaces, perforated shadows, riddled with fires, flowers, flights, the revolving night, the universe. And I the smallest thing, made drunk by the great void, starred, in the image, likeness of mystery, felt myself pure part of abyss, turned with the starlight, my heart broken loose in the wind.