The dog and I do not answer my question
.
jumping, running through the fields and asked me not to mention
and his eyes are wet two requests, two flames
liquid that question and I do not answer, do not answer because I do not know,
I can not say anything. In open
go man and dog.
Bright leaves as if someone had kissed one by one,
arise from the ground to place all the orange trees on small planetary
round like the night, and green, and
us, man and dog, go to sniff the world , to shake clover,
in the Chilean countryside, between the fingers clear of September.
The dog stops chasing the bees, jump the water trembling, listening
distant barking, urine on a rock
and brings me the tip of his nose, to me, as a gift.
E 'its freshness affectionate communication of its affection,
right there and asked me with his eyes, and because
' day, because it will be the night, because the spring
did not bring anything in his basket for dogs strays, but useless flowers, flowers, flowers, and flowers. And so the dog
asked me and I do not answer.
Come on man and dog together in the morning green
dall'incitante empty loneliness in which only we exist, this unity between
dog with dew and the poet of the woods, because there is no bird
hidden
it 'the jewel in secret, but only trills and perfumes for the two companions: a world
dampened by the distillation of the night,
a tunnel and then a large green lawn, a gust of wind
orange,
the whisper of the roots, the
continuing life,
and old friendship, the happiness of being
dog and man to be turned into any animal that walks by moving
six legs and a tail
with dew.
Pablo Neruda
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