Now in the middle of my days I glean
this truth that has a flower’s freshness:
life is the gold and sweetness of wheat,
hate is brief and love immerse.
Let us exchange for a smiling verse
that verse scored with blood and gall.
Heavenly violets open, and through the valley
the wind blows a honeyed breath.
Now I understand not only the man who prays;
now I understand the man who breaks into song.
Thirst is long-lasting and the hillside twisting;
but a lily can ensnare our gaze.
Our eyes grow heavy with weeping,
yet a brook can make us smile.
A skylark’s song bursting heavenward
makes us forget it is hard to die.
by Gabriela Mistral