The Earth Pablo Neruda

The green earth has yielded
to everything yellow, gold, harvests,
farms, leaves, grain,
but when autumn rises
with its spacious banner
it is you that I see,
for me it is your hair
that separates the tassels.

I see the monuments
of ancient broken stone,
but if I touch
the stone scar
your body responds to me,
my fingers recognize
suddenly, shivering,
your warm sweetness.

I pass among the heroes
recently decorated
by the earth and the dust
and behind them, silent,
with your tiny steps,
is it you or not you?
Yesterday, when they pulled up
by the roots, to have a look at it,
the old dwarf tree,
I saw you come out looking at me
from the tortured
and thirsty roots.