isla negra

{14 de noviembre de 2009}

bird

it was passed from one bird to another,

the whole gift of the day.

the day went from flute to flute,

went dressed in vegetation,

in flights which opened a tunnel

through the wind would pass

to where birds were breaking open

the dense blue air--

and there, night came in.

~*~

when I returned from so many journeys,

I stayed suspended and green

between sun and geography--

I saw how wings worked, how perfumes are transmitted

by feathery telegraph,

and from above I saw the path,

the springs and the roof tiles,

the fishermen at their trades,

the trousers of the foam;

I saw it all from my green sky.

I had no more alphabet

than the swallows in their courses,

the tiny, whining water

of the small bird on fire

which dances out of the pollen.

~pablo neruda~

xo