This planet, carpet thousands of years old,
shall flourish but it does not accept death nor repose:
each spring the sun's keys open
fertility's cyclical locks,
and cascading bunches of fruit resound,
the earth's splendor rises and falls to the mouth
and humankind is thankful for the goodness
.........of its kingdom. 
Praised be the old land the color of excrement,
her cavities, her sacrosanct ovaries,
the storehouses of wisdom that contained
copper, oil, magnets, ironworks, purity.
The lightning bolt that seems to fall from hell
was hoarded by the ancient mother of roots
and each day bread came out to greet us,
unperturbed by the blood and death we humans wear,
the accursed progeny who deliver light unto the world. 
-- from The Earth; Pablo Neruda (trans. Richard Shaaf)


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