The street

drowns in tomatoes; 

noon,

summer,

light

breaks

in two

tomato

halves,

and the streets

run

with juice.

In December,

the tomato

cuts loose,

invades

kitchens

takes over lunches,

settles

at rest

on sideboards,

with the glasses,

butter dishes,

blue salt-cellars.

It has

its own radiance

a goodly majesty.

Too bad we must 

assassinate:

a knife

plunges

into its living pulp,

red

viscera,

a fresh,

deep, 

inexhaustible

sun

floods the salads

of Chile,

beds cheerfully

with the blonde onion,

and to celebrate

oil

the filial essence

of the olive tree

lets itself fall

over its gaping hemispheres,

the pimento

adds

its fragrance,

salt its magnetism -

we have the day's wedding:

parsley

flaunts

its little flags,

potatoes thump to a boil,

the roasts

beat

down the door

with their aromas:

it's time!

let's go!

and upon

the table,

belted by summer,

tomatoes,

stars of the earth,

stars multiplied

and fertile

show off

their convulutions, 

canals

and plenitudes,

and the abundance

boneless,

without husk,

or scale or thorn, 

grant us

the festival 

of ardent colour

and all-embracing freshness

 

Pablo Neruda