Tuesday, July 31, 2007

Pablo Neruda poem

From Isla Negra, A Notebook by Pablo Neruda
“Loves: Terusa (II)”

The year arrives, four numbers
like four lucky birds
perching on a wire
Against a backdrop of bare time.
But now
they are not singing.
They consumed the harvest, they defeated
that spring,
and flower upon flower, all that is left
is this vast space.

Now that you come to visit me,
my onetime darling, my love, my invisible girl,
I implore you to lie with me
once more
in the grass.

Now it seems to me
that your head has altered.
Why,
in this coming,
did you cover over with ash
the wondrous coal of your hair
that I ran my hands through
in the starry cold of Temuco?
Where are your eyes?
Why do you narrow them at me
to see if I am the same?
Where did you leave your golden body?
What became of your opening hands
and your jasmine glimmer?

Come into my house, look at the sea with me.
The waves, one by one,
have exhausted
our lives;
it is not just the foam that has disintegrated
but the cherries,
the feet,
the lips
of a time of glass.

Goodbye. I beg you now,
go back
to your amber throne
under the moon,
go back to your honeysuckled balcony,
resume
your burning image,
match your eyes
to those
other eyes,
turn yourself gradually
into that
glowing portrait,
go into it
deeply, deeply
with your smile,
and look at me
from its stillness, until
I see you again
at that point,
at that time,
as the one I once was in your flowering heart.

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