The Portrait In The Rock Comments

Another superbly crafted classic by the timeless poet.

When he opened it, the police took him, and they beat him up so much that he spat blood in France, in Denmark, in Spain, in Italy, moving about, and so he died and I stopped seeing his face, very fine poem of the great Neruda.

his face was formed in stone, his profile defied the wild weather, in his nose the wind was muffling the moaning of the persecuted. very fine poem. t ony