As a rule when everything is finished
And only music drifts about like twilight
I will notice
His portrait hanging on the wall
High mountains, foxes flitting past
Pablo Neruda
Starts to watch
This room
Covered in dust and aphorisms
While I sit there
Leafing through books and newspapers
Chatting with friends
A hundred times the sun shines in
But I always miss the occasion
And Pablo
Always seems like a shadow
His chubby chin sunk down
Searching the room
For its young owner
When I am sleepy and unable to dream
Of sails and summer
He writes poems for me
And stealthily
Leaves them on my grubby desk