When I reached here my hand stops.
Someone asks: "Tell me, why, like waves
on a single coast, do your words
endlessly go and return to her body?
Is she the only form that you love?"
And I answer: "My hands never tire
of her, my kisses do not rest,
why should I withdraw the words
that repeat the trace of her beloved contact,
words that close, uselessly
holding like water in a net
the surface and the temperature
of the purest wave of life?"
And, love, your body is not only the rose
that in the shadow or moonlight rises,
it is not only movement or burning,
act of blood or petal of fire,
but to me you have brought
my territory, the clay of my childhood,
the waves of oats,
the round skin of the dark fruit
that I tore from the forest,
aroma of wood and apples,
color of hidden water where secret
fruits and deep leaves fall.
Oh love, your body rises
like the pure line of a goblet
from the earth that knows me
and when my senses found you
you throbbed as though within you
rain and seeds were falling.
Ah let them tell me how
I could abolish you
and let my hands without your form
tear the fire from my words.
My gentle one, rest
your body in these lines that owe you
more than you give me through your touch,
live in these words and repeat
in them the sweetness of the fire,
tremble amid their syllables,
sleep in my name as you have slept
upon my heart, and so tomorrow
my words will keep
the hollow of your form
and he who hears them one day will receive a gust
of wheat and poppies;
the body of love will still be breathing upon earth.
~ Pablo Neruda
Thanks Dee
Kristofer Playful
- 10 years, 3 months, 2 days ago
