Pablo Neruda

You will remember that leaping stream 

where sweet aromas rose and trembled, 

and sometimes a bird, wearing water 

and slowness, its winter feathers.

You will remember those gifts from the earth: 

indelible scents, gold clay, 

weeds in the thicket and crazy roots, 

magical thorns like swords.

You'll remember the bouquet you picked, 

shadows and silent water, 

bouquet like a foam-covered stone.

That time was like never, and like always. 

So we go there, where nothing is waiting; 

we find everything waiting there.