You sing, and your voice peels the husk
of the day’s grain, your song with the sun and sky,
the pine trees speak with their green tongue:
all the birds of the winter whistle.
The sea fills its cellar with footfalls,
with bells, chains, whimpers,
the tools and the metals jangle,
wheels of the caravan creak.
But I hear only your voice, your voice
soars with the zing and precision of an arrow,
it drops with the gravity of rain,
your voice scatters the highest swords
and returns with its cargo of violets:
it accompanies me through the sky.
~ Pablo Neruda
(trans. Stephen Tapscott)