Poem: Poem XIV

Pablo Neruda

Rolling from lake or mountain ridge,
the stone, round volcanic
daughter, snow dove,
left its shape behind
tumbling toward the sea,
its fury spent along the way.
The boulder lost its sharp-peaked,
short-lived landmark
that like a cosmic egg
was swept into the river where
between other stones, it kept on rolling,
its ancestor forgotten,
far from the hellish landslide.
This is how, sky-smoothed, it arrives
at the sea: perfect, worn down,
renewed, renowned: