O
the "locals" are all seafarers or seafarers are all "locals", or the crew
give the keynote to the shore face, churches , the brothels, the taverns to the gallows, the sun, the cooking places, the fishmongers, the drunkenness, the pretty girls that appear blue porcelain jugs or bottles or guitars or pots of gold grandparents great-grandparents, the grandparents of Pomaire, accumulated in the tune Nationally, the sea, the sea, the sea of \u200b\u200bValparaiso, walk through neighborhoods and wineries, tuteándose, man to man, with port workers or liquor nortino "walk in sockets, and are clothes hanging flags or 'carnations of the air "on the strings of the proletariat operator of homes, shops cachureos-fire and out of the sprawling ocean of your sculpture, as in the Sargasso and shipwrecks, ancient battles or lost. Markets are
and shipping ports in the neighborhood of "The Cardonal" or "Customs" and crossed anchored
stab, songs and emigration.
as Marseilles or Barcelona or Venice or New York or Liverpool, great city rotten
or Shanghai, the great city heroic progenitor, or Odessa or the way of the Babylon of Nebuchadnezzar, in which meat pigs or humans, chained to the same yoke of murder, accumulated society split in two and angry, or stallion whips in his great grief in the world. (...)
All roads to all destinations of the earth will give
the sea, Valparaíso. (...)
are no buses, ships public roads in your oceanography, "the Alley
peppers" or "Rise of the Lilycove" which is the tap of the knife and the leather of the old poet Zoilo Escobar adolescence breaststroke swimming down the tides of the Great Ocean Southern Ocean, from his grave and mossy green or plankton famous, Carlos de Rokha born and sang very large complex poems in shipping your chest, stuck the bow in the secret of immortality wound, and his brother Thomas, roared finite life Membrillo rise above, oh! Valparaiso divine friend, just exactly what Similarly, when the horse huaso dominates the saddle and the horse or when, roaring, mule kicks him dead or bostea against his shadow, yes, you, "wind port, Port of bone, iron doors and tears, learned to live and die, colossal, with two years cut short, at the forefront of the sailors of yesteryear. (...)
Oceanography is not your system, what is the amount ocean, which gives the quality
ocean, transforming and ordering and surpassing your super power
awful, as "God" beheaded, like a coffin that arches its
suddenly and was put to cry and mourn as a book of poems, alone.
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