“It's very hard for me to write about Paul Eluard. I shall go on seeing him near me, alive, with the electric blue deepness, that could see so much and so far, burning in his eyes. He had left French soil, where laurels and roots are woven together in a fragrant heritage. His tall stature was all water and stone, with ancient vines climbing up on it, bearing flowers and flashes of light, nests and transparent songs. Transparence, that's the word. His poetry was crystal hard as rock, water standing still in its singing stream.” (from ‘Conjieso que he vivido: Memorias’, Pablo Neruda)
running the whole length of the horizon...