...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.

(Pablo Neruda)