Everything on the earth bristled, the bramble
pricked and the green thread
nibbled away, the petal fell, falling
until the only flower was the falling itself.
Water is another matter,
has no direction but its own bright grace,
runs through all imaginable colors,
takes limpid lessons
from stone,
and in those functionings plays out
the unrealized ambitions of the foam.
Tags 1900-1925 Best Pablo Neruda Poems Best Poems Best Poetry Classic Poetry Comunist Poetry Latin-American Poet Nobel Prize Poets Pablo Neruda Pablo Neruda Poems Pablo Neruda Poetry Poems Poetry
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