The street <br />filled with tomatoes <br />midday, <br />summer, <br />light is <br />halved <br />like <br />a <br />tomato, <br />its juice <br />runs <br />through the streets. <br />In December, <br />unabated, <br />the tomato <br />invades <br />the kitchen, <br />it enters at lunchtime, <br />takes <br />its ease <br />on countertops, <br />among glasses, <br />butter dishes, <br />blue saltcellars. <br />It sheds <br />its own light, <br />benign majesty. <br />Unfortunately, we must <br />murder it: <br />the knife <br />sinks <br />into living flesh, <br />red <br />viscera, <br />a cool <br />sun, <br />profound, <br />inexhausible, <br />populates the salads <br />of Chile, <br />happily, it is wed <br />to the clear onion, <br />and to celebrate the union <br />we <br />pour <br />oil, <br />essential <br />child of the olive, <br />onto its halved hemispheres, <br />pepper <br />adds <br />its fragrance, <br />salt, its magnetism; <br />it is the wedding <br />of the day, <br />parsley <br />hoists <br />its flag, <br />potatoes <br />bubble vigorously, <br />the aroma <br />of the roast <br />knocks <br />at the door, <br />it's time! <br />come on! <br />and, on <br />the table, at the midpoint <br />of summer, <br />the tomato, <br />star of earth, <br />recurrent <br />and fertile <br />star, <br />displays <br />its convolutions, <br />its canals, <br />its remarkable amplitude <br />and abundance, <br />no pit, <br />no husk, <br />no leaves or thorns, <br />the tomato offers <br />its gift <br />of fiery color <br />and cool completeness.<br /><br />Pablo Neruda<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/ode-to-tomatoes/
