Pablo Neruda Poem

Are the breasts of the sirens

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Are the breasts of the sirens
spiral shells from the sea?

Or are they petrified waves
or the stationary play of the spume?

Hasn’t the meadow caught fire
with wild fireflies?

Did autumn’s hairdressers
uncomb these chrysanthemums?

When I see the sea once more
In the middle of autumn

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