Poem – The Fickle One

My eyes went away from me

Following a dark girl who went by.
She was made of black motherofpearl

Made of darkpurple grapes,

And she lashed my blood

With her tail of fire.
After them all I go.
A pale blonde went by

Like a golden plant

Swaying her gifts.

And my mouth went

Like a wave

Discharging on her breast

Lightningbolts of blood.
After them all I go.
But to you, without my moving,

Without seeing you, distant you,

Go my blood and my kisses,

My dark one and my fair one,

My broad one and my slender one,

My ugly one, my beauty,

Made of all the gold

And of all the silver,

Made of all the wheat

And of all the earth,

Made of all the water

Of sea waves,

Made for my arms

Made for my kisses,

Made for my soul. 

Poem – Here I Love You

Here I love you. 
In the dark pines the wind disentangles itself.

The moon glows like phosphorous on the vagrant waters.

Days, all one kind, go chasing each other.
The snow unfurls in dancing figures.

A silver gull slips down from the west.

Sometimes a sail. High, high stars. 

Oh the black cross of a ship.

Alone.

Sometimes I get up early and even my soul is wet.

Far away the sea sounds and resounds.

This is a port.
Here I love you.

Here I love you and the horizon hides you in vain.

I love you still among these cold things.

Sometimes my kisses go on those heavy vessels

that cross the sea towards no arrival.

I see myself forgotten like those old anchors.
The piers sadden when the afternoon moors there.

My life grows tired, hungry to no purpose.

I love what I do not have. You are so far.

My loathing wrestles with the slow twilights.

But night comes and starts to sing to me.
The moon turns its clockwork dream.

The biggest stars look at me with your eyes.

And as I love you, the pines in the wind

want to sing your name with their leaves of wire. 

Poem – Sonata

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. 

Poem – Clenched Soul

We have lost even this twilight.
No one saw us this evening hand in hand

while the blue night dropped on the world.
I have seen from my window

the fiesta of sunset in the distant mountain tops.
Sometimes a piece of sun

burned like a coin in my hand.
I remembered you with my soul clenched

in that sadness of mine that you know.
Where were you then?

Who else was there?

Saying what?

Why will the whole of love come on me suddenly

when I am sad and feel you are far away?
The book fell that always closed at twilight

and my blue sweater rolled like a hurt dog at my feet.
Always, always you recede through the evenings

toward the twilight erasing statues. 

Poem – And Because Love Battles

And because love battles
not only in its burning agricultures

but also in the mouth of men and women,

I will finish off by taking the path away

to those who between my chest and your fragrance

want to interpose their obscure plant.
About me, nothing worse

they will tell you, my love,

than what I told you.
I lived in the prairies

before I got to know you

and I did not wait love but I was

laying in wait for and I jumped on the rose.
What more can they tell you?

I am neither good nor bad but a man,

and they will then associate the danger

of my life, which you know

and which with your passion you shared.
And good, this danger

is danger of love, of complete love

for all life,

for all lives,

and if this love brings us

the death and the prisons,

I am sure that your big eyes,

as when I kiss them,

will then close with pride,

into double pride, love,

with your pride and my pride.
But to my ears they will come before

to wear down the tour

of the sweet and hard love which binds us,

and they will say: “The one

you love,

is not a woman for you,

Why do you love her? I think

you could find one more beautiful,

more serious, more deep,

more other, you understand me, look how she’s light,

and what a head she has,

and look at how she dresses,

and etcetera and etcetera”.
And I in these lines say:

Like this I want you, love,

love, Like this I love you,

as you dress

and how your hair lifts up

and how your mouth smiles,

light as the water

of the spring upon the pure stones,

Like this I love you, beloved.
To bread I do not ask to teach me

but only not to lack during every day of life.

I don’t know anything about light, from where

it comes nor where it goes,

I only want the light to light up,

I do not ask to the night

explanations,

I wait for it and it envelops me,

And so you, bread and light

And shadow are.
You came to my life

with what you were bringing,

made

of light and bread and shadow I expected you,

and Like this I need you,

Like this I love you,

and to those who want to hear tomorrow

that which I will not tell them, let them read it here,

and let them back off today because it is early

for these arguments.
Tomorrow we will only give them

a leaf of the tree of our love, a leaf

which will fall on the earth

like if it had been made by our lips

like a kiss which falls

from our invincible heights

to show the fire and the tenderness

of a true love. 

Leave Me A Place  – Pablo Neruda

Leave me a place underground, a labyrinth,where I can go, when I wish to turn,

without eyes, without touch,

in the void, to dumb stone,

or the finger of shadow.
I know that you cannot, no one, no thing

can deliver up that place, or that path,

but what can I do with my pitiful passions,

if they are no use, on the surface

of everyday life,

if I cannot look to survive,

except by dying, going beyond, entering

into the state, metallic and slumbering, 

of primeval flame? 

Leaning Into The Gardens – Pablo Neruda

Leaning into the afternoons I cast my sad net

towards your oceanic eyes.
There in the highest blaze my solitude lengthens and flames,

its arms turning like a drowning man’s.
I send out red signals across your absent eyes

that smell like the sea or the beach by a lighthouse.
You keep only darkness, my distant female,

from your regard sometimes the coast of dread emerges.
Leaning into the afternoons I fling my sad nets

to that sea that is thrashed by your oceanic eyes.
The birds of night peck at the first stars

that flash like my soul when I love you.
The night gallops on its shadowy mare

shedding blue tassels over the land. 

It’s Good To Feel You Are Close To Me – Pablo Neruda

It’s good to feel you are close to me in the night, love,

invisible in your sleep, intently nocturnal,

while I untangle my worries

as if they were twisted nets.

Withdrawn, your heart sails through dream,

but your body, relinquished so, breathes

seeking me without seeing me perfecting my dream

like a plant that seeds itself in the dark.

Rising, you will be that other, alive in the dawn,

but from the frontiers lost in the night,

from the presence and the absence where we meet ourselves,

something remains, drawing us into the light of life

as if the sign of the shadows had sealed

its secret creatures with flame. 

In You The Earth – Pablo Neruda

Little

rose,

roselet,

at times,

tiny and naked,

it seems

as though you would fit

in one of my hands,

as though I’ll clasp you like this

and carry you to my mouth,

but

suddenly

my feet touch your feet and my mouth your lips:

you have grown,

your shoulders rise like two hills,

your breasts wander over my breast,

my arm scarcely manages to encircle the thin

new-moon line of your waist:

in love you loosened yourself like sea water:

I can scarcely measure the sky’s most spacious eyes

and I lean down to your mouth to kiss the earth. 

In My Sky At Twilight – Pablo Neruda

In my sky at twilight you are like a cloud

and your form and colour are the way I love them.

You are mine, mine, woman with sweet lips

and in your life my infinite dreams live.
The lamp of my soul dyes your feet,

the sour wine is sweeter on your lips,

oh reaper of my evening song,

how solitary dreams believe you to be mine!
You are mine, mine, I go shouting it to the afternoon’s

wind, and the wind hauls on my widowed voice.

Huntress of the depth of my eyes, your plunder

stills your nocturnal regard as though it were water.
You are taken in the net of my music, my love,

and my nets of music are wide as the sky.

My soul is born on the shore of your eyes of mourning.

In your eyes of mourning the land of dreams begin. 

I’M Explaining A Few Things – Pablo Neruda

You are going to ask: and where are the lilacs?

and the poppy-petalled metaphysics?

and the rain repeatedly spattering

its words and drilling them full

of apertures and birds?

I’ll tell you all the news.
I lived in a suburb,

a suburb of Madrid, with bells,

and clocks, and trees.
From there you could look out

over Castille’s dry face:

a leather ocean.

My house was called

the house of flowers, because in every cranny

geraniums burst: it was

a good-looking house

with its dogs and children.

Remember, Raul?

Eh, Rafel? Federico, do you remember

from under the ground

my balconies on which

the light of June drowned flowers in your mouth?

Brother, my brother!

Everything

loud with big voices, the salt of merchandises,

pile-ups of palpitating bread,

the stalls of my suburb of Arguelles with its statue

like a drained inkwell in a swirl of hake:

oil flowed into spoons,

a deep baying

of feet and hands swelled in the streets,

metres, litres, the sharp

measure of life,

stacked-up fish,

the texture of roofs with a cold sun in which

the weather vane falters,

the fine, frenzied ivory of potatoes,

wave on wave of tomatoes rolling down the sea.
And one morning all that was burning,

one morning the bonfires

leapt out of the earth

devouring human beings —

and from then on fire,

gunpowder from then on,

and from then on blood.

Bandits with planes and Moors,

bandits with finger-rings and duchesses,

bandits with black friars spattering blessings

came through the sky to kill children

and the blood of children ran through the streets

without fuss, like children’s blood.
Jackals that the jackals would despise,

stones that the dry thistle would bite on and spit out,

vipers that the vipers would abominate!
Face to face with you I have seen the blood

of Spain tower like a tide

to drown you in one wave

of pride and knives!
Treacherous

generals:

see my dead house,

look at broken Spain :

from every house burning metal flows

instead of flowers,

from every socket of Spain

Spain emerges

and from every dead child a rifle with eyes,

and from every crime bullets are born

which will one day find

the bull’s eye of your hearts.
And you’ll ask: why doesn’t his poetry

speak of dreams and leaves

and the great volcanoes of his native land?
Come and see the blood in the streets.

Come and see

The blood in the streets.

Come and see the blood

In the streets! 

Finale – 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

I Like For You To Be Still – Pablo Neruda

i like for you to be still 

it is as though you are absent 

And you hear me from far away 

And my voice does not touch you 

it seems as though your eyes had flown away 

And it seems that a kiss had sealed your mouth 

As all things are filled with my soul 

You emerge from the things 

Filled with my soul 

You are like my soul 

A butterfly of dream 

And you are like the word: Melancholy 
i like for you to be still 

And you seem far away 

it sounds as though you are lamenting 

A butterfly cooing like a dove 

And you hear me from far away 

And my voice does not reach you 

Let me come to be still in your silence 

And let me talk to you with your silence 

That is bright as a lamp 

Simple, as a ring 

You are like the night 

With its stillness and constellations 

Your silence is that of a star 

As remote and candid 
i like for you to be still 

it is as though you are absent 

Distant and full of sorrow 

So you would’ve died 

One word then, One smile is enough 

And i’m happy; 

Happy that it’s not true

Gentleman Alone – Pablo Neruda

The young maricones and the horny muchachas, 

The big fat widows delirious from insomnia, 

The young wives thirty hours’ pregnant, 

And the hoarse tomcats that cross my garden at night, 

Like a collar of palpitating sexual oysters 

Surround my solitary home, 

Enemies of my soul, 

Conspirators in pajamas 

Who exchange deep kisses for passwords. 

Radiant summer brings out the lovers 

In melancholy regiments, 

Fat and thin and happy and sad couples; 

Under the elegant coconut palms, near the ocean and moon, 

There is a continual life of pants and panties, 

A hum from the fondling of silk stockings, 

And women’s breasts that glisten like eyes. 

The salary man, after a while, 

After the week’s tedium, and the novels read in bed at night, 

Has decisively fucked his neighbor, 

And now takes her to the miserable movies, 

Where the heroes are horses or passionate princes, 

And he caresses her legs covered with sweet down 

With his ardent and sweaty palms that smell like cigarettes. 

The night of the hunter and the night of the husband 

Come together like bed sheets and bury me, 

And the hours after lunch, when the students and priests are masturbating, 

And the animals mount each other openly, 

And the bees smell of blood, and the flies buzz cholerically, 

And cousins play strange games with cousins, 

And doctors glower at the husband of the young patient, 

And the early morning in which the professor, without a thought, 

Pays his conjugal debt and eats breakfast, 

And to top it all off, the adulterers, who love each other truly 

On beds big and tall as ships: 

So, eternally, 

This twisted and breathing forest crushes me 

With gigantic flowers like mouth and teeth 

And black roots like fingernails and shoes. 

Gautama Christ – Pablo Neruda

The names of God and especially those of His representative 

Who is called Jesus or Christ according to holy books and 

someone’s mouth 

These names have been used, worn out and left 

On the shores of rivers of of human lives 

Like the empty shells of a mollusk. 

However when we touch these sacred but exhausted 

Names, these wounded scattered petals 

Which have come out of the oceans of love and fear 

Something still remains, a sip of water, 

A rainbow footprint that still shimmers in the light. 

While the names of God were used 

By the best and the worst, by the clean and the dirty 

By the white and the black, by bloody murderers 

And by victims flaming gold with napalm 

While Nixon with his hands 

Of Cain blessed those whom he condemned to death, 

While fewer and fewer divine footprints were found 

on the beach 

People began to study colors, 

The future of honey, the sign of uranium 

They looked with anxiety and hope for the possibilities 

Of killing themselves or not killing themselves, of organizing 

themselves into a fabric 

Of going further on, of breaking through limits without stopping 
What we came across in these blood thirsty times 

With their smoke of burning trash, their dead ashes 

As we weren’t able to stop looking 

We often stopped to look at the names of God 

We lifted them with tenderness because they reminded us 

Of our ancestors, of the first people, those who said the prayers 

Those who discovered the hymn that united them in misfortune 

And now seeing the empty fragments which sheltered those 

ancient people 

We feel those smooth substances, 

Worn out and used up by good and by evil.

I Like For You To Be Still – Pablo Neruda

i like for you to be still 

it is as though you are absent 

And you hear me from far away 

And my voice does not touch you 

it seems as though your eyes had flown away 

And it seems that a kiss had sealed your mouth 

As all things are filled with my soul 

You emerge from the things 

Filled with my soul 

You are like my soul 

A butterfly of dream 

And you are like the word: Melancholy 
i like for you to be still 

And you seem far away 

it sounds as though you are lamenting 

A butterfly cooing like a dove 

And you hear me from far away 

And my voice does not reach you 

Let me come to be still in your silence 

And let me talk to you with your silence 

That is bright as a lamp 

Simple, as a ring 

You are like the night 

With its stillness and constellations 

Your silence is that of a star 

As remote and candid 
i like for you to be still 

it is as though you are absent 

Distant and full of sorrow 

So you would’ve died 

One word then, One smile is enough 

And i’m happy; 

Happy that it’s not true

If You Forget Me – Pablo Neruda

I want you to know 

one thing. 
You know how this is: 

if I look 

at the crystal moon, at the red branch 

of the slow autumn at my window, 

if I touch 

near the fire 

the impalpable ash 

or the wrinkled body of the log, 

everything carries me to you, 

as if everything that exists, 

aromas, light, metals, 

were little boats 

that sail 

toward those isles of yours that wait for me. 
Well, now, 

if little by little you stop loving me 

I shall stop loving you little by little. 
If suddenly 

you forget me 

do not look for me, 

for I shall already have forgotten you. 
If you think it long and mad, 

the wind of banners 

that passes through my life, 

and you decide 

to leave me at the shore 

of the heart where I have roots, 

remember 

that on that day, 

at that hour, 

I shall lift my arms 

and my roots will set off 

to seek another land. 
But 

if each day, 

each hour, 

you feel that you are destined for me 

with implacable sweetness, 

if each day a flower 

climbs up to your lips to seek me, 

ah my love, ah my own, 

in me all that fire is repeated, 

in me nothing is extinguished or forgotten, 

my love feeds on your love, beloved, 

and as long as you live it will be in your arms 

without leaving mine.

Here I Love You – Pablo Neruda

Here I love you. 

In the dark pines the wind disentangles itself. 

The moon glows like phosphorous on the vagrant waters. 

Days, all one kind, go chasing each other. 
The snow unfurls in dancing figures. 

A silver gull slips down from the west. 

Sometimes a sail. High, high stars. 

Oh the black cross of a ship. 

Alone. 

Sometimes I get up early and even my soul is wet. 

Far away the sea sounds and resounds. 

This is a port. 
Here I love you. 

Here I love you and the horizon hides you in vain. 

I love you still among these cold things. 

Sometimes my kisses go on those heavy vessels 

that cross the sea towards no arrival. 

I see myself forgotten like those old anchors. 
The piers sadden when the afternoon moors there. 

My life grows tired, hungry to no purpose. 

I love what I do not have. You are so far. 

My loathing wrestles with the slow twilights. 

But night comes and starts to sing to me. 
The moon turns its clockwork dream. 

The biggest stars look at me with your eyes. 

And as I love you, the pines in the wind 

want to sing your name with their leaves of wire.

Twenty Poems Of Love – Pablo Neruda

I can write the saddest lines tonight. 
Write for example: ‘The night is fractured 

and they shiver, blue, those stars, in the distance’ 
The night wind turns in the sky and sings. 

I can write the saddest lines tonight. 

I loved her, sometimes she loved me too. 
On nights like these I held her in my arms. 

I kissed her greatly under the infinite sky. 
She loved me, sometimes I loved her too. 

How could I not have loved her huge, still eyes. 
I can write the saddest lines tonight. 

To think I don’t have her, to feel I have lost her. 
Hear the vast night, vaster without her. 

Lines fall on the soul like dew on the grass. 
What does it matter that I couldn’t keep her. 

The night is fractured and she is not with me. 
That is all. Someone sings far off. Far off, 

my soul is not content to have lost her. 
As though to reach her, my sight looks for her. 

My heart looks for her: she is not with me 

The same night whitens, in the same branches. 

We, from that time, we are not the same. 
I don’t love her, that’s certain, but how I loved her. 

My voice tried to find the breeze to reach her. 
Another’s kisses on her, like my kisses. 

Her voice, her bright body, infinite eyes. 
I don’t love her, that’s certain, but perhaps I love her. 

Love is brief: forgetting lasts so long. 
Since, on these nights, I held her in my arms, 

my soul is not content to have lost her. 
Though this is the last pain she will make me suffer, 

and these are the last lines I will write for her.

And Because Love Battles – Pablo Neruda

And because love battles 

not only in its burning agricultures 

but also in the mouth of men and women, 

I will finish off by taking the path away 

to those who between my chest and your fragrance 

want to interpose their obscure plant. 
About me, nothing worse 

they will tell you, my love, 

than what I told you. 
I lived in the prairies 

before I got to know you 

and I did not wait love but I was 

laying in wait for and I jumped on the rose. 
What more can they tell you? 

I am neither good nor bad but a man, 

and they will then associate the danger 

of my life, which you know 

and which with your passion you shared. 
And good, this danger 

is danger of love, of complete love 

for all life, 

for all lives, 

and if this love brings us 

the death and the prisons, 

I am sure that your big eyes, 

as when I kiss them, 

will then close with pride, 

into double pride, love, 

with your pride and my pride. 
But to my ears they will come before 

to wear down the tour 

of the sweet and hard love which binds us, 

and they will say: “The one 

you love, 

is not a woman for you, 

Why do you love her? I think 

you could find one more beautiful, 

more serious, more deep, 

more other, you understand me, look how she’s light, 

and what a head she has, 

and look at how she dresses, 

and etcetera and etcetera”. 
And I in these lines say: 

Like this I want you, love, 

love, Like this I love you, 

as you dress 

and how your hair lifts up 

and how your mouth smiles, 

light as the water 

of the spring upon the pure stones, 

Like this I love you, beloved. 
To bread I do not ask to teach me 

but only not to lack during every day of life. 

I don’t know anything about light, from where 

it comes nor where it goes, 

I only want the light to light up, 

I do not ask to the night 

explanations, 

I wait for it and it envelops me, 

And so you, bread and light 

And shadow are. 
You came to my life 

with what you were bringing, 

made 

of light and bread and shadow I expected you, 

and Like this I need you, 

Like this I love you, 

and to those who want to hear tomorrow 

that which I will not tell them, let them read it here, 

and let them back off today because it is early 

for these arguments. 
Tomorrow we will only give them 

a leaf of the tree of our love, a leaf 

which will fall on the earth 

like if it had been made by our lips 

like a kiss which falls 

from our invincible heights 

to show the fire and the tenderness 

of a true love.

Drunk As Drunk – Pablo Neruda

Translated from the Spanish by Christopher Logue 
Drunk as drunk on turpentine 

From your open kisses, 

Your wet body wedged 

Between my wet body and the strake 

Of our boat that is made of flowers, 

Feasted, we guide it – our fingers 

Like tallows adorned with yellow metal – 

Over the sky’s hot rim, 

The day’s last breath in our sails. 
Pinned by the sun between solstice 

And equinox, drowsy and tangled together 

We drifted for months and woke 

With the bitter taste of land on our lips, 

Eyelids all sticky, and we longed for lime 

And the sound of a rope 

Lowering a bucket down its well. Then, 

We came by night to the Fortunate Isles, 

And lay like fish 

Under the net of our kisses.

The Dead Woman – Pablo Neruda

If suddenly you do not exist, 

if suddenly you no longer live, 

I shall live on. 
I do not dare, 

I do not dare to write it, 

if you die. 
I shall live on. 
For where a man has no voice, 

there, my voice. 
Where blacks are beaten, 

I cannot be dead. 

When my brothers go to prison 

I shall go with them. 
When victory, 

not my victory, 

but the great victory comes, 

even though I am mute I must speak; 

I shall see it come even 

though I am blind. 
No, forgive me. 

If you no longer live, 

if you, beloved, my love, 

if you have died, 

all the leaves will fall in my breast, 

it will rain on my soul night and day, 

the snow will burn my heart, 

I shall walk with frost and fire and death and snow, 

my feet will want to walk to where you are sleeping, but

I shall stay alive, 

because above all things 

you wanted me indomitable, 

and, my love, because you know that I am not only a man 

but all mankind.

Water – Pablo Neruda

Everything on the earth bristled, the bramble 

pricked and the green thread 

nibbled away, the petal fell, falling 

until the only flower was the falling itself. 

Water is another matter, 

has no direction but its own bright grace, 

runs through all imaginable colors, 

takes limpid lessons 

from stone, 

and in those functionings plays out 

the unrealized ambitions of the foam.

Tie Your Heart At Night To Mine, Love – Pablo Neruda

Tie your heart at night to mine, love, 

and both will defeat the darkness 

like twin drums beating in the forest 

against the heavy wall of wet leaves. 
Night crossing: black coal of dream 

that cuts the thread of earthly orbs 

with the punctuality of a headlong train 

that pulls cold stone and shadow endlessly. 
Love, because of it, tie me to a purer movement, 

to the grip on life that beats in your breast, 

with the wings of a submerged swan, 
So that our dream might reply 

to the sky’s questioning stars 

with one key, one door closed to shadow.

Your Feet – Pablo Neruda

When I cannot look at your face 

I look at your feet. 

Your feet of arched bone, 

your hard little feet. 

I know that they support you, 

and that your sweet weight 

rises upon them. 

Your waist and your breasts, 

the doubled purple 

of your nipples, 

the sockets of your eyes 

that have just flown away, 

your wide fruit mouth, 

your red tresses, 

my little tower. 

But I love your feet 

only because they walked 

upon the earth and upon 

the wind and upon the waters, 

until they found me.

Your Hands – Pablo Neruda

When your hands leap 

towards mine, love, 

what do they bring me in flight? 

Why did they stop 

at my lips, so suddenly, 

why do I know them, 

as if once before, 

I have touched them, 

as if, before being, 

they travelled 

my forehead, my waist? 

Their smoothness came 

winging through time, 

over the sea and the smoke, 

over the Spring, 

and when you laid 

your hands on my chest 

I knew those wings 

of the gold doves, 

I knew that clay, 

and that colour of grain. 

The years of my life 

have been roadways of searching, 

a climbing of stairs, 

a crossing of reefs. 

Trains hurled me onwards 

waters recalled me, 

on the surface of grapes 

it seemed that I touched you. 

Wood, of a sudden, 

made contact with you, 

the almond-tree summoned 

your hidden smoothness, 

until both your hands 

closed on my chest, 

like a pair of wings 

ending their flight.

Your Laughter – Pablo Neruda

Take bread away from me, if you wish, 

take air away, but 

do not take from me your laughter. 
Do not take away the rose, 

the lance flower that you pluck, 

the water that suddenly 

bursts forth in joy, 

the sudden wave 

of silver born in you. 
My struggle is harsh and I come back 

with eyes tired 

at times from having seen 

the unchanging earth, 

but when your laughter enters 

it rises to the sky seeking me 

and it opens for me all 

the doors of life. 
My love, in the darkest 

hour your laughter 

opens, and if suddenly 

you see my blood staining 

the stones of the street, 

laugh, because your laughter 

will be for my hands 

like a fresh sword. 
Next to the sea in the autumn, 

your laughter must raise 

its foamy cascade, 

and in the spring, love, 

I want your laughter like 

the flower I was waiting for, 

the blue flower, the rose 

of my echoing country. 
Laugh at the night, 

at the day, at the moon, 

laugh at the twisted 

streets of the island, 

laugh at this clumsy 

boy who loves you, 

but when I open 

my eyes and close them, 

when my steps go, 

when my steps return, 

deny me bread, air, 

light, spring, 

but never your laughter 

for I would die.