The Garden

Only in the garden
can ponders of life be thought.
Spring intermingles life
with the repetition of death;
in spring I hold
what the garden grants:
plants awakened,
freshly freed hearts,
blossoms no sin could entwine,
ascending in piece;
some gardens have broad arms —
those to keep me yearning above,
and others create sombre stretches
that daunt a thirst.

See the whirl,
the parade of the dead
filled with joy and
fulfilled blooms.
But one asked them
of their nectar —
in mundane silk they find
a lot more stirring.

• Gabriela Mistral