The day is made of many days, an hour
keeps slow minutes that found their way, and the day
grows and grows with extravagant forgottens, with metals,
crystals, clothes still flung in the corners,
predictions, messages the never arrived.
The day is a pool in the future forest,
waiting, filling with leaves, with warmings,
with dark sounds that entered the water
like celestial stones.
from TIME by Pablo Neruda
