Maybe this is the house I lived in

when I did not exist nor was there land,

when everything was moon or stone or shadow,

when the still light was not born.

Maybe then this stone was

my house, my windows or my eyes.

It reminds me of this granite rose

something that inhabited me or that I inhabited,

cave or cosmic head of dreams,

cup or castle or ship or birth.

I touch the tenacious effort of the rock,

its bastion beaten in the brine,

and I know that my cracks remained here,

wrinkled substances that rose

from depths to my soul,

and stone I was, stone I will be, that's why

I touch this stone and for me it has not died:

It is what I was, what I will be rest

of your combat as long as time.

Pablo Neruda