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, ransomed 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 thrown 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.

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