The She Bird
With my little terrestrial bird,
my rustic earthen jug,
I break out singing
the guitar's rain:
alleged autumn arrives
like a load of firewood,
decanting the aroma
that flew through the mountains,
and grape by grape my kisses
were joined to her bunch.
This proves that the afternoon
accumulates sweetness
like the amber process
or the order of violets.
Come flying, passenger,
let's fly with the coals,
live or cold,
with the disorderly darkness
of the obscure and the ardent.
Let's enter the ash,
let's move with the smoke,
let's live by the fire.
In mid autumn
we'll set the table
over the grassy hillside,
flying over Chillan
with your guitar in your wings.
Pablo Neruda |
