Frogs

A croak in the night
reminds of waves unbound,
droplets drip like shared fears,
forgetting laughter of youth.

In darkened ponds where dusk rings out,
the croakers in succession rise;
they piece together sweet dreams —
yet among the heaving knots
life unfolds, fraught with thorns.

And though frolic echoes call
from lilies adorned in dew,
their song speaks of some truth:
Holding fast the ties of hope.

Those frogs sing for tomorrow
where climb begins anew,
a glimmer washed in time.

Oh, sweet tremor of the heart,
a sign of age unveiled.

• Gabriela Mistral