(Poem #192 on new numbering scheme)
On a long trip on a bus, from Temuco's rainy moss to Santiago's vast mess, I read a small, torn book. Thus, because of Neruda's songs there took root a vague longing. my inner poet grew wings. Although maybe I am wrong, since, in fact, I still long failed at becoming more controlled in habit, till I was told perhaps this blog could be filled.
– three englynion proest dalgron