Pablo Neruda’s ⁍ Sonnet 72

My love, winter returns to its billet,
the earth fixes its yellow gifts,
and we caress a distant land,
stroking the hair of the globe-

To leave! now! go: wheels, ships, bells,
airplanes whetted by infinite daylight,
toward the archipelago’s nuptial odor,
longitudinal grains of joy!

Let’s go-get up-pin back your hair-take off
and land, run and sing with the air and me:
let’s take a train to Arabia, or Tocopilla,

only sailing like a distant pollen:
to piercing lands of rags and gardenias,
ruled by indigent monarchs with no shoes.