Proem by Octavio Paz

  At times poetry is the vertigo of bodies and the vertigo of
speech and the vertigo of death;
  the walk with eyes closed along the edge of the cliff, and the
      verbena in submarine gardens;
  the laughter that sets on fire the rules and the holy
      commandments;
  the descent of parachuting words onto the sands of the page;
  the despair that boards a paper boat and crosses,
  for forty nights and forty days, the night-sorrow sea and the
      day-sorrow desert;
  the idolatry of the self and the desecration of the self and the
      dissipation of the self;
  the beheading of epithets, the burial of mirrors; the
      recollection of pronouns freshly cut in the garden of
      Epicurus, and the garden of Netzahualcoyotl;
  the flute solo on the terrace of memory and the dance of
      flames in the cave of thought;
  the migrations of millions of verbs, wings and claws, seeds
      and hands;
  the nouns, bony and full of roots, planted on the waves of
      language;
  the love unseen and the love unheard and the love unsaid:
      the love in love.

Syllables seeds.

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