Last night in the wee hours of the morning, a friend sent me Neruda’s Ode to Sadness. He called out the lines:
A poet lives here.
No sadness may
cross this threshold.

I give to you the middle of the poem:

No entry here.
Don’t come in.
Go away.
Go back
south with your umbrella,
go back
north with your serpent’s teeth.
A poet lives here.
No sadness may
cross this threshold.
Through these windows
comes the breath of the world,
fresh red roses,
flags embroidered with
the victories of the people.

No.
No entry.
Flap
your bat’s wings,
I will trample the feathers
that fall from your mantle,
I will sweep the bits and pieces
of your carcass to
the four corners of the wind,

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