A little ode dedicated to the cat written by my writer Pablo Neruda favortito * 0 * X Oda cat
The animals were imperfect ,
long tail, head
sad. Gradually
were
composing,
becoming a landscape,
acquiring spots, grace, flight.
The cat, only the cat
appeared complete and proud:
born completely finished,
walking alone and knowing what you want.
Man wants to be fish or fowl,
the snake would have wings,
the dog is a lost lion,
the engineer wants to be a poet, the fly studies
swallow
the poet tries to imitate the fly, but the cat
cat only wants to be and everything
cat is a cat from whiskers to tail,
from a rat living
from night to his golden eyes. There is no unity
like him have no
the moon and the flower has its construction
:
one thing is like the sun or a topaz, and the elastic line
in outline
strong and subtle like
line on the bow of a ship.
Its yellow eyes leave only
slot to coin the gold of the night.
O little emperor without globe
,
conqueror without country, tiny tiger
games, bridal
sultan of the sky of erotic tiles,
love the wind in the open
you claim when you spend four
and backside
delicate feet on the ground, smelling
,
distrust of all land,
because everything is filthy
for the immaculate foot of the cat.
O independent beast house, arrogant
vestige of the night,
lazy, gymnastic and alien
,
profound cat, secret police
Room,
logo
a lost velvet, surely there
enigma to your manner, perhaps you are not
mystery,
everyone knows you and you belong
least mysterious inhabitant, perhaps everyone
I believe everyone believes
owners
owners of cats
uncles, peers, colleagues
,
disciples or friends of your cat.
I do not.
I do not subscribe.
I do not know the cat.
All I know, life and its archipelago,
the sea and the incalculable city,
botany, the harem
their losses,
the for and the least of mathematics
volcanic funnels the world, Unreal shell
crocodile ignored
goodness of a firefighter,
the blue atavism of priests,
but I can not decipher a cat.
My reason slipped in their indifference, their eyes have
golden numbers.
The animals were imperfect ,
long tail, head
sad. Gradually
were
composing,
becoming a landscape,
acquiring spots, grace, flight.
The cat, only the cat
appeared complete and proud:
born completely finished,
walking alone and knowing what you want.
Man wants to be fish or fowl,
the snake would have wings,
the dog is a lost lion,
the engineer wants to be a poet, the fly studies
swallow
the poet tries to imitate the fly, but the cat
cat only wants to be and everything
cat is a cat from whiskers to tail,
from a rat living
from night to his golden eyes. There is no unity
like him have no
the moon and the flower has its construction
:
one thing is like the sun or a topaz, and the elastic line
in outline
strong and subtle like
line on the bow of a ship.
Its yellow eyes leave only
slot to coin the gold of the night.
O little emperor without globe
,
conqueror without country, tiny tiger
games, bridal
sultan of the sky of erotic tiles,
love the wind in the open
you claim when you spend four
and backside
delicate feet on the ground, smelling
,
distrust of all land,
because everything is filthy
for the immaculate foot of the cat.
O independent beast house, arrogant
vestige of the night,
lazy, gymnastic and alien
,
profound cat, secret police
Room,
logo
a lost velvet, surely there
enigma to your manner, perhaps you are not
mystery,
everyone knows you and you belong
least mysterious inhabitant, perhaps everyone
I believe everyone believes
owners
owners of cats
uncles, peers, colleagues
,
disciples or friends of your cat.
I do not.
I do not subscribe.
I do not know the cat.
All I know, life and its archipelago,
the sea and the incalculable city,
botany, the harem
their losses,
the for and the least of mathematics
volcanic funnels the world, Unreal shell
crocodile ignored
goodness of a firefighter,
the blue atavism of priests,
but I can not decipher a cat.
My reason slipped in their indifference, their eyes have
golden numbers.
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