Through a Closed Mouth the Flies Enter

by Pablo Neruda

Why with those red flames

are rubies ready to burn?

Why does the heart of the topaz

have yellow honeycombs?

Why does the rose amuse itself

by changing the color of its dreams?

Why does the emerald grow cold

like a drowned submarine?

And why does the sky turn pale

over the June stars?

Where does the lizard's tail

buy its fresh paint?

Where is the underground fire

that resurrects the carnations?

Where does the salt get

that transparent gaze?

Where did the coals sleep

that they got up so dark?

And where, where does the tiger buy

stripes of mourning, stripes of gold?

When did the honeysuckle begin

to know its perfume?

When did the pine tree realize

its fragrant effect?

When did the lemons learn

the same catechism as the sun?

When did smoke learn to fly?

When do the roots converse?

What is water like in the stars?

Why is the scorpion poisonous,

why is the elephant benign?

What does the tortoise meditate on?

Where does the shade withdraw?

What song does the rain repeat?

Where do the birds go to die?

And why are the leaves green?

What we know is so little

and what we presume is so much

and we learn so slowly

that we ask and then we die.

Better to keep our pride

for the city of the dead

on the day of the departed

and there when the wind goes through

the hollows of your skull

it will decipher those enigmas for you,

whispering the truth in the space

where your ears used to be.