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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=476124" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>The Portrait In The Rock</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=476124" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">Oh yes I knew him, I spent years with him,<br>with his golden and stony substance,<br>he was a man who was tired - <br>in Paraguay he left his father and mother,<br>his sons, his nephews,<br>his latest in-laws,<br>his house, his chickens,<br>and some half-opened books.<br>They called him to the door.<br>When he opened it, the police took him,<br>and they beat him up so much<br>that he spat blood in France, in Denmark,<br>in Spain, in Italy, moving about,<br>and so he died and I stopped seeing his face,<br>stopped hearing his profound silence ;<br>then once, on a night of storms,<br>with snow spreading<br>a smooth cloak on the mountains,<br>on horseback, there, far off,<br>I looked and there was my friend - <br>his face was formed in stone,<br>his profile defied the wild weather,<br>in his nose the wind was muffling <br>the moaning of the persecuted.<br>There the exile came to ground.<br>Changed into stone, he lives in his own country.</a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><a href="http://poems.citatepedia.com/">poem</a> by <strong><a rel="author" href="http://authors.citatepedia.com/by.php?a=Pablo+Neruda">Pablo Neruda</a></strong></div>