Pablo Neruda

Enigma With Flower

Victory. It has come late, I had not learnt how to arrive, like the lily, at will, the white figure, that pierces the motionless eternity of earth, pushing at clear, faint, form, till the hour strikes: that clay, with a white ray, or a spur of milk. Shedding of clothing, the thick darkness of soil, on whose cliff the fair flower advances, till the flag of its whiteness defeats the contemptible deep of night, and, from the motion of light, spills itself in astonished seed.

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