by Pablo Neruda
The morning is full of storm
in the heart of summer.
The clouds travel like white handkerchiefs of
the wind, travelling, waving them in its hands.
The numberless heart of the wind
beating above our loving silence.
Orchestral and divine, resounding among the trees
like a language full of wars and songs.
Wind that bears off the dead leaves with a quick raid
and deflects the pulsing arrows of the birds.
Wind that topples her in a wave without spray
and substance without weight, and leaning fires.
Her mass of kisses breaks and sinks,
assailed in the door of the summer's wind.
from twenty love poems and a song of despair, translated by WS Merwin at Jonathan Cape London