The gift

From hard hands how many

descends the tool,

the cup,

and even the signal curve

of the hip that pursues thence

all of a woman with its pattern!

It’s the hand that forms

the cup of form,

leads the barrel’s pregnancy

to the lunar line of the bell.

I ask for some big hands

that will help me

to change the profile of the planets:

triangular stars

the traveler needs:

constellations like cold dice

of squared-off clarity:

some hands that draw

secret rivers for Antofagasta

until the water rectifies

its avarice lost in the desert.

I want all the hands of men

to knead mountains

of bread and gather

from the sea all fishes,

all olives

from the tree,

all love that doesn’t wake up still

and leave a gift

in each one of the hands

of day.

Pablo Neruda