Two

Love, from seed to seed, from planet to planet,
the wind with its net through the darkening nations,
war with its bloody shoes,
or even the day, with a thorny night.
 
Wherever we went, islands or bridges or flags,
there were the violins of the fleeting autumn, bullet laced;
happiness echoing at the rim of the wineglass;
sorrow detaining us, with its lesson of tears.
 
Through all those republics the wind whipped—
its arrogant pavilions, its glacial hair;
it would return the flowers, later, to their work.
 
But no withering autumn ever touched us.
In our stable place a love sprouted, grew:
as rightfully empowered as the dew.
 
Pablo Neruda