Today is today, with the weight of all past time,
with the wings of all that will be tomorrow;
today is the South of the sea, water’s old age,
the composition of a new day.
The petals of a finished day collected on your mouth,
lifted to the light or to the moon,
and yesterday comes trotting down its darkening path
so we can remember that face of yours that died.
Today, yesterday, and tomorrow pass,
swallowed up, consumed in one day like a burning calf;
our cattle wait with their days numbered,
but in your heart time sprinkled its flour,
my love built an oven of Temuco clay:
you are my soul’s daily bread.