Pablo Neruda’s ⁍ Sonnet 97

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These days, one must fly-but where to?
without wings, without an airplane, fly-without a doubt:
the footsteps have passed on, to no avail;
they didn’t move the feet of the traveler along.

At every instant, one must fly-like
eagles, like houseflies, like days:
must conquer the rings of Saturn
and build new carillons there.

Shoes and pathways are no longer enough,
the earth is no use anymore to the wanderer:
the roots have already crossed through the night,

and you will appear on another planet,
stubbornly transient,
transformed in the end into poppies.