“Bird” by Pablo Neruda

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.

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