The Insect Pablo Neruda

From your hips down to your feet
I want to make a long journey.

I am smaller than an insect.

I go along these hills,
they are the color of oats,
they have slender tracks
that only I know,
burnt centimeters,
pale perspectives.

Here there is a mountain.
I'll never get out of it.
Oh what a giant moss!
And a crater, a rose
of dampened fire!

Down your legs I come
spinning a spiral
or sleeping en route
and I come to your knees
of round hardness
as to the hard peaks
of a bright continent.