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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 fisherman 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 iny, shining water
of the small bird on fire
which dances out of the pollen.
Pablo Neruda
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