Saturday Poem


Hands and lips of wind
heart of water
campground of the clouds
the life that is born every day
the death that is born every life

I rub my eyes
the sky walks the land


What sustains it,
half-open, the clarity of nightfall,
the light let loose in the gardens?

All the branches,
conquered by the weight of birds,
lean toward the darkness.

Pure, self-absorbed moments
still gleam
on the fences.

Receiving night,
the groves become
hushed fountains.

A bird falls,
the grass grows dark,
edges blur, lime is black,
the world is less credible.

by Octavio Paz
from The Collected Poems 1957-1987
Carcanet Books
Translation: Eliot Weinberger