Body of my woman, I will persist in your grace.
Pablo NerudaOh to follow the road that leads away from everything,
without anguish, death, winter waiting along it
with their eyes open through the dew.
And I watch my words from a long way off.
They are more yours than mine.
They climb on my old suffering like ivy.
It climbs the same way on damp walls.
You are to blame for this cruel sport.
They are fleeing from my dark lair.
You fill everything, you fill everything.
Before you they peopled the solitude that you occupy,
and they are more used to my sadness than you are.
Now I want them to say what I want to say to you
to make you hear as I want you to hear me.
The morning is full of storm
in the heart of summer.
The clouds travel like white handkerchiefs of goodbye,
the wind, travelling, waving them in its hands.
The numberless heart of the wind
beating above our loving silence.
Orchestral and divine, resounding among the trees
like a language full of wars and songs.
You keep only darkness, my distant female,
from your regard sometimes the coast of dread emerges.
The birds of night peck at the first stars
that flash like my soul when I love you.
White bee, even when you are gone you buzz in my soul
You live again in time, slender and silent.
In you is the illusion of each day.
You arrive like the dew to the cupped flowers.
You undermine the horizon with your absence.
Eternally in flight like the wave.
Like them you are tall and taciturn, and you are sad, all at once, like a voyage.
Pablo NerudaTags: love sadness relationships
Tonight I can write the saddest lines
I loved her, and sometimes she loved me too.
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