The artichoke 

Of the tender heart 

Standing at attention, 

In full battle garb

Builds its defensive position. 

And remains unshakable,

In its armored leaves 

Surrounded

By the raving vegetables

 Bristling with inventions

Tendrils and leaf-thorns, 

Tense bulbs, 

Throbbing in the sub-soil 

Where the carrot sleeps

In its red mustaches 

While the vine 

Dries on the rootstock

Through which the wine climbs,

And the cabbage stays focused

On trying on skirts

And the oregano 

Perfumes the world, 

 The sweet artichoke 

There in the garden, 

The innocent artichoke,

Armed for war, 

Proud as a pomegranate

Burnished like a grenade,

Awaits the day 

That alongside others 

In big wicker baskets 

It will go marching 

Through the market 

To realize its dream 

Of military service 

Never so martial

As at the market 

Among the vegetables 

Where the men 

With the white shirts 

Are the Marshals 

Of the artichokes 

Closing their ranks

With commanding voices  

And the detonation 

Of a falling box.

But 

Then

Along comes 

Maria 

And chooses 

An artichoke, 

Fearlessly,

Examines and observes it 

Against the light

Like an egg, 

And buys it, 

And dumps it

In her purse 

Along with shoes,

A cabbage,

And a bottle

Of vinegar

Until,

Back in her kitchen,  

She drowns it in a pot.

 Thus ends, 

In serenity, 

The proud career 

Of the armed vegetable 

They call the artichoke, 

So that

Scale by scale, 

We can undress

Its deliciousness

And eat 

The peaceful paste 

Of its green heart.

-Pablo Neruda