Water
Everything on the earth bristled, the bramble
pricked and the green thread
nibbled away, the petal fell, falling
until the only flower was the falling itself.
Water is another matter,
has no dire but its own bright grace,
runs through all imaginable colors,
takes limpid lessons
from stone,
and in those funings plays out
the unrealized ambitions of the foam.
Pablo Neruda
(ò﹏ò)
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