Ode to the rose ---Pablo Neruda.

***Ode to the rose***

Pablo Neruda

 To the rose,

to this rose,
to the only one,
to this gallant, open,
adult pink
at its velvet depth,
at the bursting of her red breast.
They believed,
yes,
they believed
that reunited you,
I do not sing to you,
that you're not mine, pink,
but others,
that I
I go around the world
without looking at you,
worried
alone
of man
and its conflict.
It's not true, pink,
I love you.
Teen,
I preferred the spikes,

the grenades,
I preferred rough
 flowers
of scrub, wild
lilies
By elegant
I despised your upright
fullness,
the morning satin of your corpio,
the indolent insolence
of your agony, when
you drop a petal
and with the others
you continue to burn
until all the treasure was scattered.

You belong to Me,
pink,
like everything
what is on earth,
and can not
the poet
close the eyes
to your cup on,
close the heart to your fragrance.
Rosa, you're tough:
I've seen
Fall the snow in my garden:
the ice
it paralyzed life,
the big trees
they broke their branches,
alone,
rosebush,
survivor,
stubborn,
naked, there in the cold
similar to the earth,
relative
of the farmer, of the mud,
of the frost,
and later on
timely, the birth

of a rose,
the growth 
of a call.

Rosa worker,
you work
your perfume,
you elaborate
your scarlet outburst or your whiteness,
all the winter
you search the earth,
dig
minerals,
mining
you take fire
From the bottom
and later
you open,
splendor of light, lip of fire,
beauty lamp.

To me
you belong me,
me and everyone,
although
barely
let's have
time to look at you,
life for
devote to your flames
the cares,
pink,
you are ours,
Viennese
of time consumed
and you advance,

salts from 
the gardens
to the future.
Walk
the way
of man,
unwavering 
and victorious 
you are
a little
flag cocoon.
Under your resistant and delicate
fragrance pavilion
the grave earth defeated death
and the victory was your flare.