Pablo Neruda
	Ode to the Piano At the concert the piano was sad, ignored its gravedigger's black frock and later opened its mouth, its whale mouth; the pianist entered the piano like a crow flying, something happened as though a silver stone splashed or a hand appeared from a hidden pond: a sweetness slid down like rain on a bell, in the background light fell from a closed-up house, an emerald traveled through the depths and the sea gave out its call, as did the night, the fields, a drop of dew. The lightning bolt on high, the silent poetry of the rose rang out, silence surrounded the bed of dawn. Thus was music born from the dying piano, the naiad's robes were lifted from the catafalque and from its teeth until the piano, the pianist sank into oblivion and the concert, and all was sound, torrential notes, pure scale, clear bell. Then the man returned from the tree of music. He came flying back down like a lost crow or a crazed horse; the piano closed its whale's maw and the man walked backwards towards silence. - Translated by Carlos Reyes