And I Wrote the First Faint Line

Reading about the writing life, I came across this poem by Pablo Neruda. There isn't much to say about it other than, 'write on.'

Poetry
by Pablo Neruda

And it was at that age...Poetry arrived 
in search of me. I don't know, I don't know where 
it came from, from winter or a river. 
I don't know how or when, 
no, they were not voices, they were not 
words, nor silence, 
but from a street I was summoned, 
from the branches of night, 
abruptly from the others, 
among violent fires 
or returning alone, 
there I was without a face 
and it touched me. 

I did not know what to say, my mouth 
had no way 
with names 
my eyes were blind, 
and something started in my soul, 
fever or forgotten wings, 
and I made my own way, 
deciphering 
that fire 
and I wrote the first faint line, 
faint, without substance, pure 
nonsense, 
pure wisdom 
of someone who knows nothing, 
and suddenly I saw 
the heavens 
unfastened 
and open, 
planets, 
palpitating plantations, 
shadow perforated, 
riddled 
with arrows, fire and flowers, 
the winding night, the universe. 

And I, infinitesimal being, 
drunk with the great starry 
void, 
likeness, image of 
mystery, 
I felt myself a pure part 
of the abyss, 
I wheeled with the stars, 
my heart broke loose on the wind.