The light that rises from your feet to your hair, <br />the strength enfolding your delicate form, <br />are not mother of pearl, not chilly silver: <br />you are made of bread, a bread the fire adores. <br /> <br />The grain grew high in its harvest of you, <br />in good time the flour swelled; <br />as the dough rose, doubling your breasts, <br />my love was the coal waiting ready in the earth. <br /> <br />Oh, bread your forehead, your legs, your mouth, <br />bread I devour, born with the morning light, <br />my love, beacon-flag of the bakeries: <br /> <br />fire taugh you a lesson of the blood; <br />you learned your holiness from flour, <br />from bread your language and aroma.<br /><br />Pablo Neruda<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/sonnet-xiii-the-light-that-rises-from-your-feet-to-your-hair/
