Ode to French Fries : Poem by Pablo Neruda

What sizzles

in boiling

oil

is the world's

pleasure:

French

fries

go

into the pan

like the morning swan's

snowy

feathers

and emerge

half-golden from the olive's

crackling amber.

Garlic

lends them

its earthy aroma,

its spice,

its pollen that braved the reefs.

Then,

dressed

anew

in ivory suits, they fill our plates

with repeated abundance,

and the delicious simplicity of the soil.