Little America Pablo Neruda

When I look at the shape
of America on the map,
my love, it is you I see:
the heights of copper on your head,
your breasts, wheat and snow,
your slender waist,
swift throbbing rivers, sweet
hills and meadows
and in the cold of the south your feet end
its geography of duplicated gold.

Love, when I touch you
not only have my hands
explored your delight
but boughs and lands, fruits and water,
the springtime that i love,
the desert moon, the breast
of the wild dove,
the smoothness of stones worn away
by the waters of the sea or the rivers
and the red thickness
of the bush where
thirst and hunger lie in wait.
And thus my spacious country welcomes me,
little America, in your body.