Pablo Neruda


Neither the heart cut by a piece of glass
in a wasteland of thorns
nor the atrocious waters seen in the corners
of certain houses, waters like eyelids and eyes
can capture your waist in my hands
when my heart lifts its oaks
towards your unbreakable thread of snow.

Nocturnal sugar, spirit
of the crowns,
human blood, your kisses
send into exile
and a stroke of water, with remnants of the sea,
neats on the silences that wait for you
surrounding the worn chairs, wearing out doors.

Nights with bright spindles,
divided, material, nothing
but voice, nothing but
naked every day.

Over your breasts of motionless current,
over your legs of firmness and water,
over the permanence and the pride
of your naked hair
I want to be, my love, now that the tears are
into the raucous baskets where they accumulate,
I want to be, my love, alone with a syllable
of mangled silver, alone with a tip
of your breast of snow.

So That You Might Hear Me

So that you might hear me
my words
grow slender sometimes
like the tracks of gulls on the beaches.

Necklace, drunken bell
for your hands, smooth as grapes.

And I find that my words are far away.
More than mine they are yours.
They climb upon my old sorrow like ivy.

It so climbs on the moist walls.
You are the culprit of this bloody game.

They flee from my dark hiding place.
You fill everything, you fill everything.

Before you, they populated the solitude that you fill,
and they are more accustomed than you to my sadness.

Now I want them to say what I want to tell you
so that you might hear them as I want you to hear me.

The wind of anguish still does drag them along.
Hurricanes of dreams still topple them sometimes.

You listen to other voices in my pained voice.
Lament of old mouths, blood of old pleas.
Love me, companion. Do not abandon me. Follow me.
Follow me, companion, on that wave of anguish.

But my words are becoming stained with your love
you fill everything, you fill everything.

I am making an infinite necklace out of them
for your white hands, smooth as grapes.

Leaning Into the Afternoons

Leaning into the afternoons I throw my sad nets
towards your oceanic eyes.

There in the highest bonfire stretches and burns
my solitude that waves its arms in circles like a castaway.

I make red signals over your absent eyes
that ripple as the sea on the shore of a lighthouse.

You keep only shadows, my distant female,
from your gaze sometimes the coast of fear emerges.

Leaning over into the afternoons I cast my sad nets
towards that sea that rattles your oceanic eyes.

The night birds peck out the first stars
that flicker like my soul when I love you.

The night gallops on its somber mare
spilling blue ears of grain upon the fields.

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