These days, one must fly - but where to?
without wings, without an airplane, fly - without doubt:
the footsteps have passed on, to no avail;
they didn’t move the feet of the traveler along.
At every instant, one must fly - like
eagles, like houseflies, like days
must conquer the rings of Saturn
and build new carillons there.
Shoes and pathways are no longer enough,
the earth is no use anymore to the wanderer:
the roots have already crossed through the night,
and you will appear on another planet,
stubbornly transient,
transformed in the end into poppies.
- Pablo Neruda, one hundred love sonnets
garconniere: (via ewryan)
