by Pablo Neruda. Original Text

Traducido de mi, Joel Smith, 2020.

Today is today with the weight of all time past,
with the wings of all that will be tomorrow,
it is the ends of the sea, the antiquity of the water
composing itself into a new day.

To your mouth, upturned to the sun and the moon,
the petals of a day consumed accumulate,
and yesterday comes plodding down its shaded alley
as if we should remember the face of one who died.

Today, yesterday, and tomorrow are consumed in passing,
we consume days like voracious cattle,
our livestock hopes in spite of numbered days.

But in your heart time has sown its wheat,
my love built its oven with the mud of Temuco:
you are the the daily bread for my soul.