ODE TO SUMMER
Summer,
red violin,
clear
cloud,
the hum
the hum
of
a saw
or
cicadas
announce
your arrival.
The
heavens
arch
to
a smoothness,
lucent
as an eye,
and
below your gaze,
summer,
you are
an
infinite sky-fish,
shameless
messenger
of
praise,
lazy,
sleepy-eyed
one,
little
bee belly,
mischievous
sun,
terrible
paternal sun,
sweaty
as a toiling ox,
and
the scorching sun
in
one’s head
is
like a
sudden
blow,
sun
of thirst
crossing
the sand,
summer,
desert
sea.
The
sulfur
miner
drips
yellow
sweat,
the
aviator
maps,
ray
by ray,
the
celestial sun,
darkened
sweat
slips
down
a forehead
into
the eyes;
at
Lota,
the
miner
scrubs
his
blackened forehead.
Seed
beds
burn,
wheat
rustles
blue
insects
seek
shade,
touch
refreshment,
dive
headlong
into
diamonds.
Oh
lush
summer,
ripe
apple
cart,
verdant
strawberry
mouth,
lips
of wild plum,
roads
of
tender
dust
on dust,
midday
coppery
red
drum.
In
the afternoon,
fire
rests,
air
makes
clover
dance;
it enters
the
deserted factory:
a
fresh star
rises
in
the
cloudy
sky.
A
summer night
sizzles
without
burning.
-Pablo Neruda
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