“… You can say anything you want, yes sir, but it’s the words that sing, they soar and descend. I bow to them, I love them, I cling to them, I run them down, I bite into them, I melt them down. I love words so much … The unexpected ones, the ones I wait for greedily or stalk until, suddenly, they drop …They glitter like colored stones, they leap like silver fish, they are foam, thread, metal, dew. I run after certain words. They are so beautiful that I want to fit them all into my poem.
I catch them in mid-flight, as they buzz past, I trap them, clean them, peel them. I set myself in front of the dish. They have a crystalline texture to me, vibrant, ivory, vegetable, oily, like fruit, like algae, like agates, like olives. And then I stir them, I shake them, I drink them, I gulp them down, I mash them, I garnish them, I let them go … I leave them in my poem like stalactites, like slivers of polished wood, like coals, pickings from a shipwreck, gifts from the waves. Everything exists in the word …” ~ Pablo Neruda
… and maybe, a little of this everything exists in the colors of photographs, in the eyes of a stranger and in the flames of burning violins!