LXXII by Pablo Neruda
If all the rivers are sweet
how does the sea get its salt?
How do the seasons know
they must change their shirt?
Why so slowly in winter
and later with such a rapid shudder?
And how do the roots know
they must climb toward the light?
And then greet the air
with so many flowers and colors?
Is it always the same spring
who revives her role?
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