The pigs hold up the dawn.
The birds consume the night.
And in the morning the world is deserted:
the spiders, men, dogs, the wind sleep,
pigs grunt and day breaks.
I want to speak with pigs.
Sweet, sonorous, husky-voiced frogs!
I always wanted to be a frog for a day,
Always loved the pool, the leaves
fine as filaments,
the green world of the watercress
where the frogs are masters of the sky.
The frogs’ serenade
cries into my dream and excites it,
cries like a twisting vine
to the balconies of my childhood,
to my cousin’s breasts,
to the astronomical jasmines
in the black night of the South,
and now that the time has passed
let them not ask the sky of me.
I think I have not yet learned
the hoarse idiom of the frogs.
If this is so, how am I a poet?
What do I know of the multiplied
geography of the night?
In this world which runs and is silent,
I want more communications,
other languages, other signs,
I want to know this world.
Everyone has been contented
with the sinister presentations
of shrewd capitalists
and systematic women.
I want to speak with many things
and I will not leave this planet
without knowing what I came to seek,
without investigating this matter,
and people do not suffice for me,
I have to go much further
and I have to go much closer.
Therefore, gentlemen, I am going
to converse with a horse.
May the poetess excuse me,
and the professor forgive me.
My whole week is taken up,
I have to listen to a lot of confusion of talk.
What was the name of that cat?' ~ "Bestiary" by Pablo Neruda, translation by Elsa Neuberger