This moment as smooth as a board, and fresh, this hour, this day as clean as an untouched glass --not a single spiderweb from the past: we touch the moment with our fingers, we cut it to size, we direct its blooming. It's living, it's alive: it brings nothing from yesterday that can't be redeemed, nothing from the lost past.

Leaning into the afternoons I cast my sad nets towards your oceanic eyes.

There in the highest blaze my solitude lengthens and flames, its arms turning like a drowning man's.

I send out red signals across your absent eyes that smell like the sea or the beach by a lighthouse.

You keep only darkness, my distant female, from your regard sometimes the coast of dread emerges.

Leaning into the afternoons I fling my sad nets to that sea that is thrashed by your oceanic eyes.

The birds of night peck at the first stars that flash like my soul when I love you.

The night gallops on its shadowy mare shedding blue tassels over the land.

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.