Winter Garden

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Pablo Neruda translation

Winter comes. Prescribes me
splendid slow leaves
dressed only in silence
and yellow.

I’m a book of snow,
a spacious hand, a meadow.
I’m a waiting circle.
I belong to the land, even its winter.

A rumor of the world once grew in these leaves.
But wheat burned like stars,
bloomed red as fire.
Autumn came to imbibe

in the writing of wine:
everything died, poured to Heaven
from summer’s cup,
and the clouds burned off, innavigable.

I watched from the balcony, mourning it all.
I remembered the ivy of my childhood
and longed for land to extend
its green wings, a cupid.

I know the rose needs to fall,
that only the peach pit that sleeps
can spring back again,
but having drank from that cup

I want to burn this field,
turn it’s chill sea
to a June sky
with embers and ash.

The earth lives
to reassure through interrogation,
extending the skin of silence.
I return to being

the quiet, alien one, watching from inside,
surrounded by dripping bell jars.
I prepare to answer the pure death of the land
with nothing but these headstrong sprouts.