(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973 / Parral)


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, shining water
of the small bird on fire
which dances out of the pollen.

by Pablo Neruda

Comments (30)

dear poet the bird it creates a lot of poems that is a nice poem thanks
Fantastic style of narration as also observations and their presentation. Simply great.
great feelings- poetic wings flatter and fly every near to far, far too far, world round tiny ball, return to same destination same, same dying everywhere../// beautiful poem
we are beautiful birds.we do sing and clap our feathers
The great Neruda............wonderful. tony
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