Pablo Neruda’s ⁍ Sonnet 41

January rough times, when the indifferent
noon makes its equation in the sky.
Like wine in a glass, a hard gold
fills the earth to its blue limits.

Rough times of the season, like little grapes
distilling green bitterness,
the hidden confused tears of the days, swelling
in clusters, till bad weather lays them bare.

Yes: seed-germs, and grief, and everything that throbs
frightened in the crackling January light
will ripen, will burn, as the fruit burned ripe.

And our problems will crumble apart, the soul
blow through like a wind, and here where we live
will all be clean again, with fresh bread on the table.