The Morning is Full of Storm

"The morning is full of storm in the heart of summer

the clouds travel like white handkerchiefs of goodbye.

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 defects the pulsing arrows of the birds.

Winds that toppples her in a wave without spray and

substance without weight, and leaving fires.

Her mass of kisses breaks and sinks,

assailed in the door of the summer's wind."

-Pablo Neruda