Pablo Neruda


Matilde, years or days sleeping, feverish, here or there, gazing off, twisting my spine, bleeding true blood, perhaps I awaken or am lost, sleeping: hospital beds, foreign windows, white uniforms of the silent walkers, the clumsiness of feet. And then, these journeys and my sea of renewal: your head on the pillow, your hands floating in the light, in my light, over my earth. It was beautiful to live when you lived! The world is bluer and of the earth at night, when I sleep enormous, within your small hands.

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