Pastoral by Pablo Neruda — Read

I copy out mountains, rivers, clouds.

I take my pen from my pocket. I note down a bird in its rising or a spider in its little silkworks.

Nothing else crosses my mind. I am air, clear air, where the wheat is waving, where a bird's flight moves me, the uncertain fall of a leaf, the globular eye of a fish unmoving in the lake, the statues sailing in the clouds, the intricate variations of the rain.

Nothing else crosses my mind except the transparency of summer. I sing only of the wind, and history passes in its carriage, collecting its shrouds and medals, and passes, and all I feel is rivers.

I stay alone with the spring.

Shepherd, shepherd, don't you know they are all waiting for you?

I know, I know, but here beside the water while the locusts chitter and sparkle, although they are waiting, I want to wait for myself.

I too want to watch myself.

I want to discover at last my own feelings.

And when I reach the place where I am waiting,

I expect to fall asleep, dying of laughter.