Maremoto/Seaquake by Pablo Neruda

Touch this harvest:

here my hands worked

diminutive tombs of salt

destined for beings and substances,

ferocious in their livid beauty,

in their limestone stigmas,

fugitives,

because they will feed us

and other beings

with so much flowering and devouring light.

Here, being and not being were combined

in radiant and hungry structures:

life burns and death passes

like a flash of lightening.

I am the only witness

to the electricity and the splendor

that fills the devouring calm.