Pablo Neruda’s ⁍ Sonnet 67

The great rain from the South falls on Isla Negra
like a single drop, lucid and heavy,
the sea opens its cool leaves and receives it,
the earth learns how a wineglass fulfills

its wet destiny. In your kisses, my soul, give me the water,
salty from these months, the honey of the fields,
fragrance dampened by the sky’s thousand lips,
the sacred patience of the sea in winter.

Something calls to us, all the doors turn
open by themselves, the rain repeats its rumor to the windows,
the sky grows downward till it touches the roots:

so the day weaves and unweaves its heavenly net,
with time, salt, whispers, growth, roads,
a woman, a man, and winter on the earth.