Master weaver
of grand tapestries
with words alive and shimmering
like unscratchable diamonds placed
within oysters with opal shells,
scattered over dunes undulating,
of an ocean-bed so deep and murky,
it hides its oracles,
forever in the dark.
His lines amuse themselves,
at the expense
of my bewilderment,
winking at me
like a coquette, blushing deliberately,
secure in her knowledge
of adding another conquest
to her treasury of hearts annihilated
by the incantations
of her mystic mantra.
Neruda, the great poet,
a lone visionary soaring
like an eagle
through clear, Chilean skies;
a conjurer of words pulsating
with a secret, inner life.
Neruda, the vicious bard,
knew the mystery,
the seed carries
within its fibrous shell
before it turns
into a glorious flower.
