Ode to the Artichoke by Pablo Neruda

The tender- hearted artichoke dressed in its armor, built its modest cupola and stood erect, impenetrable beneath a lamina of leaves.

Around it, maddened vegetables, ruffling their leaves, contrived creepers, cattails, bulbs, and tubers to astound; beneath the ground slept the red-whiskered carrot; above, the grapevine dried its runners, bearers of the wine; the cabbage preened itself, arranging its flounces; oregano perfumed the world, while the gentle artichoke stood proudly in the garden, clad in armor burnished to a pomegranate glow.

And then one day, with all the other artichokes in willow baskets, our artichoke set out to market to realize its dream: life as a soldier.

Amid the ranks never was it so martial as in the fair, white-shirted men among the greens marshaled the field of artichokes; close formations, shouted commands, and the detonation of a falling crate.

But look, here comes

Maria with her shopping basket.

Unintimidated, she selects our artichoke, examines it, holds it to the light as if it were an egg; she buys it, she drops it in a shopping bag that holds a pair of shoes, a cabbage head, and one bottle of vinegar.

Once home and in the kitchen she drowns it in a pot.

And thus ends in peace the saga of the armored vegetable we call the artichoke, as leaf by leaf we unsheathe its delights and eat the peaceable flesh of its green heart.