I am the Pablo Bird, bird of a single feather, a flier in the clear shadow and obscure clarity, my wings are unseen, my ears resound when I walk among the trees or beneath the tombstones like an unlucky umbrella or a naked sword, stretched like a bow or round like a grape, I fly on and on not knowing, wounded in the dark night, who is waiting for me, who does not want my song, who desires my death, who will not know I'm arriving and will not come to subdue me, to bleed me, to twist me, or to kiss my clothes, torn by the shrieking wind.

That's why I come and go, fly and don't fly but sing: I am the furious bird of the calm storm.

Have about 60 other more appropriate poems of Neruda to post here but I guess this sums me up the most accurately tonight.