Poems – Sonata – 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

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