Autumn Butterfly
Pablo Neruda

The butterfly dances
and burns – with the sun – sometimes,

flits and flies flaring in a swirl,
now still,
on a leaf that rocks it.

They said, “You have nothing.
Not this sickness. You persist.”

I said nothing either.
And it is past the hour of the harvest.

Today a hand of anguish
filled the autumn sky.
And into my soul the fall leaves pushed.

They said, “You have nothing.
Not this sickness. You persist.”

It was the hour of the scythe.
The sun, now,
convalesced.

Everything leaves this life, my friends.
It leaves or perishes.

It leaves the hand that beckons.
It leaves or perishes.

It leaves the rose you loosen.
And the mouth that gives you a kiss.

Water, shadow and vase.
It leaves or perishes.

It is past the hour of the scythe.
The sun, now, convalesced.

Its warm tongue enveloped me.
And then I said: “-You persist.”

The butterfly dances,
shudders,
disappears.

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