Modest is the autumn, like the woodcutters.
It's costly to cut all the leaves
off all the trees of all places.
In spring they're sewn on in flight
and now you must let them fall
as if they were little yellow birds:
it insn't easy.
You need time.
You must run the streets,
speak the languages
and everywhere, always,
let fall,
fall,
let fall,
fall the leaves.
It's hard to be autumn,
easy to be spring.
Turning on all that is born
to be turned on.
Turning off the world, instead,
making it slip away
as if it were a circle of yellow roses,
'til smells, light and roots mix
and making wine lift to grapes,
minting patiently the irregular coin
from the top of the tree
and dispersing it later
on uninterested desert roads,
is the job of manly hands.

Pablo Neruda

• Biografia
• Leggi tutte le opere