Enigma with a flower

A victory. It’s late, you didn’t know.

There came lily-like to my fancy

the white stem that pierces

the immobile eternity of earth,

pushing out a weak clear form

until it broke the clay

with white ray or spur of milk.

Mute, compact obscurity of soil

on whose precipice

advanced the clear flower

until the pavilion of its whiteness

vanquished worthless deeps of night

and from clarity in motion

spilled out astounded seeds.

Pablo Neruda