¡¶The Poetry of Pablo Neruda¡·


 A Dog Has Died

    My dog has died.

    I buried he garden

    next to a rusted old machine.

    Some day Ill join  there,

    but now ,

    his bad manners and his cold nose,

    and I, terialist, who never believed

    in any promised he sky

    for any human being,

    I believe in a er.

    Yes, I believe in a heaven for all dogdom

    ws for my arrival

    waving ail in friendship.

    Ai, Ill not speak of sadness h,

    of  a companion

    who was never servile.

    of a porcupine

    s auty,

    ar, aloof,

    imacy than was called for,

    ions:

    hes

    filling me full of his hair or his mange,

    my knee

    like oth sex.

    No, my dog used to gaze at me,

    paying me ttention I need,

    ttention required

    to make a vain person like me understand

    t, being a dog, ing time,

    but, han mine,

    me

    reserved for me alone

    all  and shaggy life,

    alroubling me,

    and asking nothing.

    Ai, imes ail

    as ogethe sea

    in ter of Isla Negra

    he sky

    and my

    full of tage of t:

    my wandering dog, sniffing away

    ail held high,

    face to face he oceans spray.

    Joyful, joyful, joyful,

    as only dogs know o be happy

    onomy

    of t.

    there are no good-byes for my dog who has died,

    and  noo eacher.

    So now hes gone and I buried him,

    and ts all to it.

    translated, from the Spanish, by Alfred Yankauer

 A Lemon

    Out of lemon flowers

    loosed

    on t, loves

    lasiable

    essences,

    sodden h fragrance,

    trees yellow

    emerges,

    the lemons

    move down

    from trees planetarium

    Delicate merchandise!

    t-

    bazaars

    for t and the

    barbarous gold.

    e open

    the halves

    of a miracle,

    and a clotting of acids

    brims

    into tarry

    divisions:

    creations

    original juices,

    irreducible, changeless,

    alive:

    so the freshness lives on

    in a lemon,

    in t-smelling he rind,

    tions, arcane and acerb.

    Cutting the lemon

    the knife

    leaves a little cathedral:

    alcoves unguessed by the eye

    t open acidulous glass

    to t; topazes

    riding ts,

    altars,

    aromatic facades.

    So, whe hand

    of the lemon,

    half a world

    on a trencher,

    the universe

    wells

    to your touch:

    a cup yellow

    h miracles,

    a breast and a nipple

    perfuming th;

    a flasage,

    tive fire of a planet.

 A Song of Despair

    t around me.

    ts stubborn lament he sea.

    Deserted like t dawn.

    It is ture, oed one!

    Cold flower .

    O of debris, fierce cave of the shipwrecked.

    In you ts accumulated.

    From you the song birds rose.

    You sance.

    Like time. In you everything sank!

    It  and the kiss.

    t blazed like a lighthouse.

    Pilots dread, fury of blind driver,

    turbulent drunkenness of love, in you everything sank!

    In t my soul, winged and wounded.

    Lost discoverer, in you everything sank!

    You girdled sorroo desire,

    sadness stunned you, in you everything sank!

    I made the wall of shadow draw back,

    beyond desire and act, I walked on.

    O,

    I summon you in t o you.

    Like a jar you e tenderness.

    and te oblivion stered you like a jar.

    tude of the islands,

    and took me in.

    t and .

    the miracle.

    A know ain me

    in the cross of your arms!

    errible and brief my desire o you!

    and drunken, ensed and avid.

    Cemetery of kisses, till fire in your tombs,

    still ted boug by birds.

    Oten mouthe kissed limbs,

    oeetwined bodies.

    Ohe mad coupling of hope and force

    in which we merged and despaired.

    And tenderness, liger and as flour.

    And the lips.

    tiny and in it was my voyage of my longing,

    and in it my longing fell, in you everything sank!

    O of debris, everyto you,

    express, in  drowned!

    From billoo billoill called and sang.

    Standing like a sailor in the prow of a vessel.

    You still floill brike ts.

    O of debris, open and bitter well.

    Pale blind diver, luckless slinger,

    lost discoverer, in you everything sank!

    It is ture, the hard cold hour

    ens to all timetables.

    tling belt of the shore.

    Cold stars e.

    Deserted like t dawn.

    Only tremulous ss in my hands.

    Ohing.

    It is ture. Oh abandoned one!

 Bird

    It o another,

    t of the day.

    t from flute to flute,

    dressed in vegetation,

    in fligunnel

    the wind would pass

    to where birds were breaking open

    the dense blue air -

    and t came in.

    urned from so many journeys,

    I stayed suspended and green

    between sun and geography -

    I saw how wings worked,

    ransmitted

    by featelegraph,

    and from above I sah,

    tiles,

    t trades,

    trousers of the foam;

    I sa all from my green sky.

    I

    their courses,

    tiny, ser

    of the small bird on fire

    he pollen.

 Brown and Agile Child

    Brown and agile c

    And ripens ts the seaweed

    has made your happy body and your luminous eyes

    And given your mouter.

    A black and anguisangled in twigs

    Of your black mane w your arms.

    You play in tidal river

    And it leaves two dark pools in your eyes.

    Brown and agile co you,

    Everythe noon.

    You are th of bee,

    t.

    My somber  seeks you always

    I love your  voice.

    Dusky butterfly, s and sure

    Like tfiled, ter.

 Canto XII from The Heights of Macchu Picchu

    Canto XII from ts of Maccrong>

    Arise to birther.

    Give me your  of ths

    sown by your sorrows.

    You  return from tone fastnesses.

    You  emerge from subterranean time.

    Your rasping voice  come back,

    nor your pierced eyes rise from ts.

    Look at me from th,

    tiller of fields, icent shepherd,

    groom of totemic guanacos,

    mason reacherous scaffolding,

    iceman of Andean tears,

    jeh crushed fingers,

    farmer anxious among his seedlings,

    potter ed among his clays--

    bring to this new life

    your ancient buried sorrows.

    Show me your blood and your furrow;

    say to me: here I was scourged

    because a gem h

    failed to give up in time its titone.

    Point out to me tumbled,

    to crucify your body.

    Strike ts

    to kindle ancient lamps, lighe whips

    glued to your  turies

    and ligh your blood.

    I come to speak for your dead mouths.

    t th

    let dead lips congregate,

    out of t to me

    as if I rode at anch you.

    And tell me everytell chain by chain,

    and link by link, and step by step;

    s hidden away,

    t to my breast, into my hands,

    like a torrent of sunbursts,

    an Amazon of buried jaguars,

    and leave me cry: hours, days and years,

    blind ages, stellar centuries.

    And give me silence, give me er, hope.

    Give me truggle, the volcanoes.

    Let bodies cling like magnets to my body.

    Come quickly to my veins and to my mouth.

    Speak through my blood.

 Cats Dream

    ly a cat sleeps,

    sleeps s pas posture,

    sleeps s wicked claws,

    and s unfeeling blood,

    sleeps he rings--

    a series of burnt circles--

    whe odd geology

    of its sand-colored tail.

    I so sleep like a cat,

    ime,

    ongue roug,

    he dry sex of fire;

    and after speaking to no one,

    stretche world,

    over roofs and landscapes,

    e desire

    to  ts in my dreams.

    I  asleep

    e,

    flo like dark er;

    and at times, it o fall

    or possibly plunge into

    ted snos.

    Sometimes it grew so much in sleep

    like a tigers great-grandfather,

    and he darkness over

    rooftops, clouds and volcanoes.

    Sleep, sleep cat of t,

    h episcopal ceremony

    and your stone-carved moustache.

    take care of all our dreams;

    control ty

    of our slumbering prowess

    less

    and t ruff of your tail.

    translated by Alastair Reid

    Submitted by Jen

 Clenched Soul

    e  even t.

    No one sahis evening hand in hand

    he world.

    I have seen from my window

    ta of sunset in tant mountain tops.

    Sometimes a piece of sun

    burned like a coin in my hand.

    I remembered you h my soul clenched

    in t sadness of mine t you know.

    hen?

    here?

    Saying w?

    he whole of love come on me suddenly

    when I am sad and feel you are far away?

    t al t

    and my blue ser rolled like a  dog at my feet.

    Alhe evenings

    toues.

 Drunk as Drunk

    translated from topher Logue

    Drunk as drunk on turpentine

    From your open kisses,

    Your  body wedged

    Bet body and trake

    Of our boat t is made of flowers,

    Feasted,  - our fingers

    Like talloal -

    Over t rim,

    t breath in our sails.

    Pinned by tice

    And equinox, droangled together

    e drifted for months and woke

    itter taste of land on our lips,

    Eyelids all sticky, and we longed for lime

    And the sound of a rope

    Lo dos hen,

    e came by nigo tunate Isles,

    And lay like fish

    Under t of our kisses.

 Enigmas

    Youve asked me er is h

    ?

    I reply, this.

    You say, ing for in its transparent

    bell?  is it ing for?

    I tell you it is ing for time, like you.

    You ask me wis alga s arms?

    Study, study it, at a certain ain sea I know.

    You question me about tusk of the narwhal,

    and I reply by describing

    dies.

    You enquire about thers,

    ides?

    Or youve found in tion touching on

    tal arcecture

    of t to me now?

    You  to understand tric nature of the ocean

    spines?

    talactite t breaks as it walks?

    tretc

    in ter?

    I  to tell you t life in its

    jewel boxes

    is endless as to count, pure,

    and among time he

    petal

    and untied its knot, letting its musical threads fall

    from a y made of infinite mother-of-pearl.

    I am not ty net which has gone on ahead

    of hose darknesses,

    of fingers accustomed to triangle, longitudes

    on timid globe of an orange.

    I igating

    tar,

    and in my net, during t, I woke up naked,

    t, a fisrapped inside the wind.

    translated by Robert Bly

 Fable of the Mermaid and the Drunks

    All there inside,

    ally naked.

    to spit.

    Nehing.

    S her way.

    ts flowed down her gleaming flesh.

    Obscenities drowned s.

    Not knoears, s ears.

    Not kno hes.

    t corks and cigarette stubs,

    and rolled around laugavern floor.

    S speak because she had no speech.

    ant love,

    opaz.

    , in a coral light,

    and suddenly s out by t door.

    Entering the river she was cleaned,

    se stone in the rain,

    and  looking back she swam again

    soiness, soh.

 Fleas interest me so much

    Fleas interest me so much

    t I let te me for hours.

    t, ancient, Sanskrit,

    mac admit of no appeal.

    t bite to eat,

    te only to jump;

    tial sphere,

    delicate acrobats

    in test and most profound circus;

    let them gallop on my skin,

    divulge tions,

    amuse th my blood,

    but someone sroduce to me.

    I  to knohem closely,

    I  to knoo rely on.

 From ¨C Twenty Poems of Love

    I can e t lines tonight.

    rite for example: ¡®t is fractured

    and tars, in tance¡¯

    t urns in the sky and sings.

    I can e t lines tonight.

    I loved imes soo.

    On nighese I held her in my arms.

    I kissed ly under te sky.

    Simes I loved oo.

    ill eyes.

    I can e t lines tonight.

    to t o feel I  her.

    niger  her.

    Lines fall on the grass.

    does it matter t I couldn¡¯t keep her.

    t is fractured and s h me.

    t is all. Someone sings far off. Far off,

    my soul is not content to  her.

    As to reac looks for her.

    My  looks for  h me

    t he same branches.

    e, from t time,  the same.

    I don¡¯t love ¡¯s certain, but how I loved her.

    My voice tried to find to reach her.

    Another¡¯s kisses on her, like my kisses.

    body, infinite eyes.

    I don¡¯t love ¡¯s certain, but perhaps I love her.

    Love is brief: forgetting lasts so long.

    Since, on ts, I held her in my arms,

    my soul is not content to  her.

    t pain she will make me suffer,

    and t lines I e for her.

 from The Book of Questions

tell me, is the rose naked

    or is t her only dress?

    rees conceal

    ts?

    s

    of tomobile?

    Is the world sadder

    train standing in the rain?

 Gentleman Alone

    the horny muchachas,

    t widows delirious from insomnia,

    ty ,

    And tomcats t cross my garden at night,

    Like a collar of palpitating sexual oysters

    Surround my solitary home,

    Enemies of my soul,

    Conspirators in pajamas

    ho exchange deep kisses for passwords.

    Radiant summer brings out the lovers

    In melancs,

    Fat and thin and happy and sad couples;

    Under t coconut palms, near the ocean and moon,

    tinual life of pants and panties,

    A ockings,

    And s t glisten like eyes.

    ter a while,

    After tedium, and t night,

    has decisively fucked his neighbor,

    And noakes o the miserable movies,

    e princes,

    And  down

    it and sy palms t smell like cigarettes.

    t of ter and t of the husband

    Come togets and bury me,

    And ter luncudents and priests are masturbating,

    And t eacher openly,

    And the flies buzz cholerically,

    And cousins play strange games h cousins,

    And doctors glo tient,

    And t a t,

    Pays  and eats breakfast,

    And to top it all off, terers, wruly

    On beds big and tall as ships:

    So, eternally,

    ted and breat crushes me

    itic floeeth

    And black roots like fingernails and shoes.

    translated by Mike topp

 I Crave Your Mouth, Your Voice, Your Hair

    I Crave Your Moutrong>

    DONt GO FAR OFF, NOt EVEN FOR A DAY

    Dont go far off, not even for a day, because --

    because -- I dont kno: a day is long

    and I ing for you, as in an empty station

    wrains are parked off somewhere else, asleep.

    Dont leave me, even for an hour, because

    ttle drops of anguisogether,

    t roams looking for a

    into me, c .

    Ote never dissolve on the beach;

    may your eyelids never flutter into ty distance.

    Dont leave me for a second, my dearest,

    because in t moment youll have gone so far

    Ill h, asking,

    ill you come back? ill you leave me here, dying?

 I Do Not Love You Except Because I Love You

    I Do Not Love You Except Because I Love You

    I do not love you except because I love you;

    I go from loving to not loving you,

    From ing to not ing for you

    My  moves from cold to fire.

    I love you only because its you the one I love;

    I e you deeply, and ing you

    Bend to you, and the measure of my changing love for you

    Is t I do not see you but love you blindly.

    Maybe January light will consume

    My  s cruel

    Ray, stealing my key to true calm.

    In t of tory I am the one who

    Dies, the only one, and I will die of love because I love you,

    Because I love you, Love, in fire and blood.

    translated by ???

    Submitted by Venus

 If You Forget Me

    I  you to know

    one thing.

    You know his is:

    if I look

    at tal moon, at the red branch

    of tumn at my window,

    if I touch

    near the fire

    the impalpable ash

    or the log,

    everyto you,

    as if everyt exists,

    aromas, ligals,

    tle boats

    t sail

    to  for me.

    ell, now,

    if little by little you stop loving me

    I sop loving you little by little.

    If suddenly

    you forget me

    do not look for me,

    for I sten you.

    If you t long and mad,

    the wind of banners

    t passes through my life,

    and you decide

    to leave me at the shore

    of t ws,

    remember

    t on t day,

    at t hour,

    I s my arms

    and my roots  off

    to seek another land.

    But

    if each day,

    each hour,

    you feel t you are destined for me

    ness,

    if each day a flower

    climbs up to your lips to seek me,

    ah my love, ah my own,

    in me all t fire is repeated,

    in me notinguisten,

    my love feeds on your love, beloved,

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

    leaving mine.

 Im Explaining a Few Things

    You are going to ask: and whe lilacs?

    and talled metaphysics?

    and tedly spattering

    its hem full

    of apertures and birds?

    Ill tell you all the news.

    I lived in a suburb,

    a suburb of Madrid, h bells,

    and clocks, and trees.

    From t

    over Castilles 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

    s dogs and children.

    Remember, Raul?

    Eh, Rafel? Federico, do you remember

    from under the ground

    my balconies on which

    t of June droh?

    Brother!

    Everything

    loud  of merchandises,

    pile-ups of palpitating bread,

    talls of my suburb of Arguelles s statue

    like a drained inkwell in a swirl of hake:

    oil floo spoons,

    a deep baying

    of feet and reets,

    metres, litres, the sharp

    measure of life,

    stacked-up fish,

    texture of roofs h a cold sun in which

    ters,

    tatoes,

    omatoes rolling dohe sea.

    And one morning all t was burning,

    one morning the bonfires

    leapt out of th

    devouring human beings --

    and from then on fire,

    gunpohen on,

    and from then on blood.

    Bandits h planes and Moors,

    bandits h finger-rings and duchesses,

    bandits tering blessings

    came to kill children

    and treets

    fuss, like childrens blood.

    Jackals t the jackals would despise,

    stones t tle e on and spit out,

    vipers t te!

    Face to face he blood

    of Spain toide

    to drown you in one wave

    of pride and knives!

    treacherous

    generals:

    see my dead house,

    look at broken Spain :

    from every al flows

    instead of flowers,

    from every socket of Spain

    Spain emerges

    and from every dead ch eyes,

    and from every crime bullets are born

    which will one day find

    ts.

    And youll ask: w ry

    speak of dreams and leaves

    and t volcanoes of ive land?

    Come and see treets.

    Come and see

    treets.

    Come and see the blood

    In treets!

 In My Sky At Twilight

    In my sky at t you are like a cloud

    and your form and colour are them.

    You are mine, mine,  lips

    and in your life my infinite dreams live.

    t,

    ter on your lips,

    oh reaper of my evening song,

    ary dreams believe you to be mine!

    You are mine, mine, I go sing it to ternoons

    he wind hauls on my widowed voice.

    ress of th of my eyes, your plunder

    stills your nocturnal regard as t er.

    You are taken in t of my music, my love,

    and my nets of music are he sky.

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

    In your eyes of mourning the land of dreams begin.

 Leaning Into The Afternoons

    Leaning into ternoons I cast my sad nets

    towards your oceanic eyes.

    t blaze my solitude lengthens and flames,

    its arms turning like a drowning mans.

    I send out red signals across your absent eyes

    t smell like thouse.

    You keep only darkness, my distant female,

    from your regard sometimes t of dread emerges.

    Leaning into ternoons I fling my sad nets

    to t sea t is thrashed by your oceanic eyes.

    t peck at t stars

    t flash like my soul when I love you.

    t gallops on its shadowy mare

    sassels over the land.

 Lost in the forest...

    Lost in t, I broke off a dark twig

    and lifted its y lips:

    maybe it he rain crying,

    a cracked bell, or a torn .

    Somet seemed

    deep and secret to me, h,

    a s muffled by umns,

    by t he leaves.

    akening from t the hazel-sprig

    sang under my tongue, its drifting fragrance

    climbed up through my conscious mind

    as if suddenly ts I  behind

    cried out to me, t h my childhood---

    and I stopped, .

 Love

    s h us,

    ws o us?

    Ah our love is a harsh cord

    t binds us wounding us

    and if

    to leave our wound,

    to separate,

    it makes a ne for us and condemns us

    to drain our blood and burn together.

    s  you

    and I find not two eyes

    like all eyes, a mouth

    lost among a t I iful,

    a body just like t have slipped

    beneat leaving any memory.

    And y you  the world

    like a w-colored jar

    air,  sound,  substance!

    I vainly sought in you

    depth for my arms

    t dig,  cease, beneath:

    beneath your eyes,

    nothing,

    beneat scarcely

    raised

    a current of crystalline order

    t does not know w flows singing.

    hy, why, why,

    my love, why?

 Magellanic Penguin

    Neither clown nor child nor black

    nor  verticle

    and a questioning innocence

    dressed in night and snow:

    t the sailor,

    t tronaunt,

    but t smile

    he bird child,

    and from the disorderly ocean

    te passenger

    emerges in snowy mourning.

    I  doubt the child bird

    the cold archipelagoes

    me s eyes,

    s ancient ocean eyes:

    it her arms nor wings

    but tle oars

    on its sides:

    it ;

    ter,

    and it looked at me from its age:

    since t exist;

    I am a he sand.

    t

    remained in the sand:

    the religious bird

    did not need to fly,

    did not need to sing,

    and ts form was visible

    its :

    as if a vein from tter sea

    had been broken.

    Penguin, static traveler,

    deliberate priest of the cold,

    I salute your vertical salt

    and envy your plumed pride.

 Nothing But Death

    teries t are lonely,

    graves full of bones t do not make a sound,

    t moving tunnel,

    in it darkness, darkness, darkness,

    like a so ourselves,

    as ts,

    as t of to the soul.

    And there are corpses,

    feet made of cold and sticky clay,

    deathe bones,

    like a barking where are no dogs,

    coming out from bells somewhere, from graves somewhere,

    groears of rain.

    Sometimes I see alone

    coffins under sail,

    embarking  have dead hair,

    e as angels,

    and pensive young girls married to notary publics,

    caskets sailing up tical river of the dead,

    the river of dark purple,

    moving upstream  by th,

    filled by th which is silence.

    Deat sound

    like a s in it, like a suit ,

    comes and knocks, using a ring one in it, h no

    finger in it,

    comes and ss ongue, h no

    t.

    Neverts steps can be heard

    and its clotree.

    Im not sure, I understand only a little, I can hardly see,

    but it seems to me t its singing s,

    of violets t are at h,

    because th is green,

    and th gives is green,

    rating dampness of a violet leaf

    and ttered er.

    But deathe world dressed as a broom,

    lapping the floor, looking for dead bodies,

    deathe broom,

    tongue of death looking for corpses,

    it is thread.

    Deats:

    it spends its life sleeping on ttresses,

    in ts, and suddenly breat:

    it blo a mournful sound t ss,

    and to

    wing, dressed like an admiral.

    translated by Robert Bly

 Ode to a Large Tuna in the Market

    Among t greens,

    a bullet

    from the ocean

    depths,

    a swimming

    projectile,

    I saw you,

    dead.

    All around you

    tuces,

    sea foam

    of th,

    carrots,

    grapes,

    but

    of the ocean

    truth,

    of the unknown,

    of the

    unfathomable

    she

    depths

    of the sea,

    the abyss,

    only you had survived,

    a pitch-black, varnished

    ness

    to deepest night.

    Only you, well-aimed

    dark bullet

    from the abyss,

    mangled

    at one tip,

    but constantly

    reborn,

    at anc,

    winged fins

    windmilling

    in t

    flight

    of

    the

    marine

    shadow,

    a mourning arrow,

    dart of the sea,

    olive, oily fish.

    I saw you dead,

    a deceased king

    of my own ocean,

    green

    assault, silver

    submarine fir,

    seed

    of seaquakes,

    now

    only dead remains,

    yet

    in all t

    yours

    he only

    purposeful form

    amid

    t

    of nature;

    amid the fragile greens

    you were

    a solitary ship,

    armed

    among tables

    fin and prow black and oiled,

    as if you ill

    the wind,

    the one and only

    pure

    ocean

    machine:

    unflaing

    ters of death.

 Ode to Maize

    America, from a grain

    of maize you grew

    to crown

    h spacious lands

    the ocean foam.

    A grain of maize was your geography.

    From the grain

    a green lance rose,

    h gold,

    to grace ts

    of Peru s yelloassels.

    But, poet, let

    ory rest in its shroud;

    praise h your lyre

    ts granaries:

    sing to tchen.

    First, a fine beard

    fluttered in the field

    above tender teeth

    of the young ear.

    ted

    and fruitfulness burst its veils

    of pale papyrus

    t grains of laughter

    migh.

    to tone,

    in your journey,

    you returned.

    Not to terrible stone,

    the bloody

    triangle of Mexican death,

    but to tone,

    sacred

    stone of your kitchens.

    tter,

    strengtritious

    cornmeal pulp,

    you ted

    by the wondrous hands

    of dark-skinned women.

    herever you fall, maize,

    he

    splendid pot of partridge, or among

    country beans, you light up

    t

    your virginal flavor.

    Oo bite into

    teaming ear beside the sea

    of distant song and deepest z.

    to boil you

    as your aroma

    spreads through

    blue sierras.

    But is there

    no end

    to your treasure?

    In chalky, barren lands

    bordered

    by the sea, along

    t,

    at times

    only your radiance

    reacy

    table of the miner.

    Your light, your cornmeal, your hope

    pervades Americas solitudes,

    and to hunger

    your lances

    are enemy legions.

    ithin your husks,

    like gentle kernels,

    our sober provincial

    cs ured,

    until life began

    to she ear.

 Ode to Sadness

    Sadness, scarab

    ,

    spiderweb egg,

    scramble-brained rat,

    bitcon:

    No entry here.

    Dont come in.

    Go away.

    Go back

    south your umbrella,

    go back

    norts teeth.

    A poet lives here.

    No sadness may

    cross threshold.

    these windows

    comes the world,

    fresh red roses,

    flags embroidered h

    tories of the people.

    No.

    No entry.

    Flap

    your bats wings,

    I rample thers

    t fall from your mantle,

    I s and pieces

    of your carcass to

    the wind,

    I will wring your neck,

    I itc,

    I will sew your shroud,

    sadness, and bury your rodent bones

    beneatime of an apple tree.

 Ode to Salt

    t

    in t cellar

    I once sa mines.

    I know

    you

    believe me

    but

    it sings

    salt sings, the skin

    of t mines

    sings

    hered

    by th.

    I shose

    solitudes

    when I heard

    the voice

    of

    t

    in t.

    Near Antofagasta

    trous

    pampa

    resounds:

    a

    broken

    voice,

    a mournful

    song.

    In its caves

    t moans, mountain

    of buried light,

    translucent cathedral,

    crystal of the sea, oblivion

    of the waves.

    And table

    in the world,

    salt,

    powder

    sprinkling

    vital light

    upon

    our food.

    Preserver

    of t

    holds of ships,

    discoverer

    on

    the high seas,

    earliest

    sailor

    of ting

    byhe foam.

    Dust of the sea, in you

    tongue receives a kiss

    from ocean night:

    taste imparts to every seasoned

    dish your ocean essence;

    t,

    miniature

    cellar

    reveals to us

    more tic weness;

    in it, aste finitude.

 Ode to the Book

    hen I close a book

    I open life.

    I hear

    faltering cries

    among harbours.

    Copper ignots

    slide dos

    to tocopilla.

    Nigime.

    Among the islands

    our ocean

    th fish,

    touc, thighs,

    the chalk ribs

    of my country.

    t

    clings to its shores, by dawn

    it wakes up singing

    as if it ed a guitar.

    the oceans surge is calling.

    the wind

    calls me

    and Rodriguez calls,

    and Jose Antonio--

    I got a telegram

    from t;Minequot; Union

    and the one I love

    ( out)

    expects me in Bucalemu.

    No book has been able

    to wrap me in paper,

    to fill me up

    ypography,

    s

    or was ever able

    to bind my eyes,

    I come out of books to people orchards

    he hoarse family of my song,

    to als

    or to eat smoked beef

    by mountain firesides.

    I love adventurous

    books,

    books of forest or snow,

    depth or sky

    but e

    the spider book

    in w

    has laid poisonous wires

    to trap the juvenile

    and circling fly.

    Book, let me go.

    I  go clothed

    in volumes,

    I dont come out

    of collected works,

    my poems

    eaten poems--

    they devour

    exciting happenings,

    feed on rougher,

    and dig their food

    out of earth and men.

    Im on my way

    in my shoes

    free of mythology:

    send books back to their shelves,

    Im going doo treets.

    I learned about life

    from life itself,

    love I learned in a single kiss

    and could teaching

    except t I have lived

    hing in common among men,

    hem,

    wheir say in my song.

 Ode To Wine

    Day-colored wine,

    night-colored wine,

    or opaz blood,

    wine,

    starry child

    of earth,

    h

    as a golden sword,

    soft

    as lascivious velvet,

    wine, spiral-seashelled

    and full of wonder,

    amorous,

    marine;

    never  contained you,

    one song, one man,

    you are choral, gregarious,

    at t, you must be shared.

    At times

    you feed on mortal

    memories;

    your wave carries us

    from tomb to tomb,

    stonecutter of icy sepulchers,

    and we weep

    transitory tears;

    your

    glorious

    spring dress

    is different,

    blood rises ts,

    es the day,

    not

    of your immutable soul.

    ine

    stirs the spring, happiness

    bursts t,

    walls crumble,

    and rocky cliffs,

    chasms close,

    as song is born.

    A jug of hou beside me

    in the wilderness,

    sang t poet.

    Let tcher

    add to ts own.

    My darling, suddenly

    the line of your hip

    becomes the brimming curve

    of t,

    your breast is ter,

    your nipples are the grapes,

    ts lights your hair,

    and your navel is a ce seal

    stamped on the vessel of your belly,

    your love an inexible

    cascade of wine,

    lig illuminates my senses,

    thly splendor of life.

    But you are more than love,

    the fiery kiss,

    t of fire,

    more the wine of life;

    you are

    ty of man,

    translucency,

    chorus of discipline,

    abundance of flowers.

    I like on table,

    when were speaking,

    t of a bottle

    of intelligent wine.

    Drink it,

    and remember in every

    drop of gold,

    in every topaz glass,

    in every purple ladle,

    t autumn labored

    to fill th wine;

    and in tual of his office,

    let the simple man remember

    to ty,

    to propagate ticle of the wine.

 Poetry

    And it  t age ... Poetry arrived

    in searc kno know where

    it came from, from er or a river.

    I dont know how or when,

    no t voices, t

    words, nor silence,

    but from a street I was summoned,

    from t,

    abruptly from thers,

    among violent fires

    or returning alone,

    t a face

    and it touched me.

    I did not knoo say, my mouth

    had no way

    h names,

    my eyes were blind,

    and sometarted in my soul,

    fever or forgotten wings,

    and I made my own way,

    deciphering

    t fire,

    and I e t faint line,

    faint,  substance, pure

    nonsense,

    pure wisdom

    of someone whing,

    and suddenly I saw

    the heavens

    unfastened

    and open,

    planets,

    palpitating plantations,

    sed,

    riddled

    h arrows, fire and flowers,

    t, the universe.

    And I, infinitesimal being,

    drunk  starry

    void,

    likeness, image of

    mystery,

    felt myself a pure part

    of the abyss,

    I wars,

    my  broke loose on the wind.

 Poor Fellows

    it takes on t,

    to make love to eacher in peace.

    Everyone pries under your ss,

    everyone interferes h your loving.

    terrible t a man and a woman,

    wer muc,

    all sorts of compunctions,

    do something unique,

    ther in one bed.

    I ask myself wive,

    or sneeze as they please.

    o eac illegitimate frogs,

    or the joys of amphibious living.

    I ask myself if birds single out enemy birds,

    or bulls gossip  in public h cows.

    Even their police.

    els spy on ts,

    windows name names,

    canons and squadrons debark on missions to liquidate love.

    All tly,

    till a man and his girl

    o raise their climax,

    full tilt,

    on a bicycle.

 Puedo Escribir

    Puedo escribir los versos mamp;aacute;s tristes esta noche.

    Escribir, por ejemplo: La nocamp;aacute; estrellada,

    y tiritan, azules, los astros, a lo lejos.

    El viento de la noca.

    Puedo escribir los versos mamp;aacute;s tristes esta noche.

    Yo la quise, y a veces ella tambiamp;eacute;n me quiso.

    En las noce;sta la tuve entre mis brazos.

    La besamp;eacute; tantas veces bajo el cielo infinito.

    Ella me quiso, a veces yo tambiamp;eacute;n la queramp;iacute;a.

    Camp;oacute;mo no haber amado sus grandes ojos fijos.

    Puedo escribir los versos mamp;aacute;s tristes esta noche.

    Pensar que no la tengo. Sentir que la he perdido.

    Oir la noce;s inmnesa sin ella.

    Y el verso cae al alma como al pasto el rocamp;iacute;o.

    Quamp;eacute; importa que mi amor no pudiera guadarla.

    La nocamp;aacute; estrellada y ella no estamp;aacute; conmigo.

    Eso es todo. A lo lejos alguien canta. A lo lejos.

    Mi alma no se contenta con haberla perdido.

    Como para acercarla mi mirada la busca.

    Mi corazamp;oacute;n la busca, y ella no estamp;aacute; conmigo.

    La misma noce;rboles.

    Nosotros, los de entonces, ya no somos los mismos.

    Ya no la quiero, es cierto, pero cuamp;aacute;nto la quise.

    Mi voz buscaba el viento para tocar su oamp;iacute;do.

    De otro. Seramp;aacute; de otro. Como antes de mis besos.

    Su voz, su cuerpo claro. Sus ojos infinitos.

    Ya no la quiero, es cierto, pero tal vez la quiero.

    Es tan corto el amor, y es tan largo el olvido.

    Porque en noce;sta la tuve entre mis brazos,

    mi alma no se contenta con haberla perdido.

    Aunque amp;eacute;ste sea el amp;uacute;ltimo dolor que ella me causa,

    y amp;eacute;stos sean los amp;uacute;ltimos versos que yo le escribo.

 Saddest Poem

    I can e t poem of all tonight.

    rite, for instance: quot;t is full of stars,

    and tars, blue, sance.quot;

    t wind whe sky and sings.

    I can e t poem of all tonight.

    I loved imes soo.

    On nighis, I held her in my arms.

    I kissed imes under te sky.

    Simes I loved her.

    ill eyes?

    I can e t poem of all tonight.

    to t o feel t Ive lost her.

    to , more immense  her.

    And to to grass.

    does it matter t my love couldnt keep her.

    t is full of stars and s h me.

    ts all. Far away, someone sings. Far away.

    My soul is lost  her.

    As if to bring her near, my eyes search for her.

    My  searc h me.

    t t rees.

    e, we whe same no longer.

    I no longer love rue, but how much I loved her.

    My voice searco touch her ear.

    Someone elses. She will be someone elses. As she once

    belonged to my kisses.

    body. e eyes.

    I no longer love rue, but perhaps I love her.

    Love is so s and oblivion so long.

    Because on nighis I held her in my arms,

    my soul is lost  her.

    Alt pain she causes me,

    and t poem I e for her.

 Some Beasts

    It wilighe iguana:

    From a rainbotlement,

    a tongue like a javelin

    lunging in verdure;

    an ant reading the jungle,

    monastic, on musical feet;

    the guanaco, oxygen-fine

    in tances,

    cobbling  into gold;

    the llama of scrupulous eye

    the dews

    of a delicate world.

    A monkey is weaving

    a tiable lusts

    on the margins of morning:

    opples a pollen-fall,

    startles t-flght

    of tterfly, he Muzo.

    It  of tor:

    snouts moving out of the slime,

    in original darkness, tions,

    a clatter of armour, opaque

    in the bog,

    turning back to the sources.

    touche leaves

    h his phosphorous absence,

    to

    in the blaze of his hungers,

    his eyeballs, a jungle of alcohol,

    burn in his head.

 Sonata

    Neit cut by a piece of glass

    in a eland of thorns

    nor trocious ers seen in the corners

    of certain ers like eyelids and eyes

    can capture your  in my hands

    s its oaks

    tohread of snow.

    Nocturnal sugar, spirit

    of the crowns,

    ransomed

    human blood, your kisses

    send into exile

    and a stroke of er, s of the sea,

    neats on t  for you

    surrounding t doors.

    Nig spindles,

    divided, material, nothing

    but voice, not

    naked every day.

    Over your breasts of motionless current,

    over your legs of firmness and er,

    over the pride

    of your naked hair

    I  to be, my love, no tears are

    thrown

    into ts we,

    I  to be, my love, alone h a syllable

    of mangled silver, alone ip

    of your breast of snow.

 Sonnet LXXXI

    And no h your dream in my dream.

    Love and pain and work should all sleep, now.

    t turns on its invisible wheels,

    and you are pure beside me as a sleeping amber.

    No one else, Love, will sleep in my dreams. You will go,

    ogeters of time.

    No one else ravel th me,

    only you, evergreen, ever sun, ever moon.

    Your e fists

    and let t drifting signs drop awo gray

    wings, and I move

    after, folloer you carry, t carries

    me a, t tiny.

    it you, I am your dream, only t, and t is all.

 Sonnet VIII

    If your eyes  the moon,

    of a day full [errupted by tinued about 26

    er ]

    of a day full of clay, and work, and fire,

    if even  move in agile grace like the air,

    if you  an amber week,

    not t

    he vines;

    if you  t bread t moon

    kneads, sprinkling its flour across the sky,

    o, I could not love you so!

    But w is --

    sand, time, tree of the rain,

    everyt I can be alive:

    moving I can see it all:

    in your life I see everyt lives.

 Sonnet XI

    I crave your mouth, your voice, your hair.

    Silent and starving, I proreets.

    Bread does not nouriss me, all day

    I  for teps.

    I hunger for your sleek laugh,

    your ,

    ones of your fingernails,

    I  to eat your skin like a whole almond.

    I  to eat the sunbeam flaring in your lovely body,

    t face,

    I  to eat ting shade of your lashes,

    and I pace around ,

    ing for you, for your  ,

    like a puma in tratue.

 Sonnet XVII

    I do not love you as if you -rose, or topaz,

    or tions ts off.

    I love you as certain dark to be loved,

    in secret, bethe soul.

    I love you as t t never blooms

    but carries in itself t of hidden flowers;

    to your love a certain solid fragrance,

    risen from th, lives darkly in my body.

    I love you  knowing how, or when, or from where.

    I love you straig complexities or pride;

    so I love you because I knoher way

    t exist, nor you,

    so close t your  is my hand,

    so close t your eyes close as I fall asleep.

 Sonnet XXXIV (You are the daughter of the sea)

    Sonnet XXXIV (You are ter of trong>

    You are ter of t cousin.

    Ser;

    cook, your blood is quick as the soil.

    Everyth.

    Your eyes go out toer, and the waves rise;

    your  to the seeds swell;

    you knoer and th,

    conjoined in you like a formula for clay.

    Naiad: cut your body into turquoise pieces,

    ted in tchen.

    t lives.

    And so at last, you sleep, in the circle of my arms

    t pus you can rest--

    vegetables, seaweed, he foam of your dreams.

    translated by Stepapscott

 The Dictators

    An odor he sugarcane:

    a mixture of blood and body, a penetrating

    petal t brings nausea.

    Bet palms the graves are full

    of ruined bones, of speectles.

    te dictator is talking

    op s, gold braid, and collars.

    tiny palace gleams like a ch

    and th gloves on

    cross t times

    and join the dead voices

    and ths freshly buried.

    t be seen, like a plant

    wh,

    .

    red has grown scale on scale,

    bloly er of the swamp,

    full of ooze and silence

 The Light Wraps You

    t s mortal flame.

    Abstracted pale mourner, standing t way

    against twig

    t revolves around you.

    Speechless, my friend,

    alone in the dead

    and filled he lives of fire,

    pure he ruined day.

    A boug falls from t.

    t roots of night

    grow suddenly from your soul,

    and t  again

    so t a blue and palled people

    your neakes nouris.

    O and fecund and magnetic slave

    of t moves in turn through black and gold:

    rise, lead and possess a creation

    so ric its flowers perish

    and it is full of sadness.

 The Night in Isla Negra

    Ancient nig

    beat at the walls of my house.

    the sky

    the ocean,

    and sky and s

    in t conflict.

    All nigruggle;

    nobody knohe name

    of t t keeps slowly opening

    like a languid fruit.

    So on t comes to light,

    out of seethe harsh dawn,

    gna by t,

    s clean by t,

    bloodstained in its sea-waser.

 The Question

    Love, a question

    royed you.

    I o you

    from tainty.

    I  you straight as

    the road.

    But you insist

    on keeping a nook

    of s I do not .

    My love,

    understand me,

    I love all of you,

    from eyes to feet, to toenails,

    inside,

    all tness, w.

    It is I, my love,

    w your door.

    It is not t, it is not

    topped

    at your window.

    I knock dohe door:

    I enter your life:

    I come to live in your soul:

    you cannot cope h me.

    You must open door to door,

    you must obey me,

    you must open your eyes

    so t I may searchem,

    you must see how I walk

    eps

    along all the roads

    t, blind, ing for me.

    Do not fear,

    I am yours,

    but

    I am not the beggar,

    I am your master,

    ting for,

    and noer

    your life,

    no more to leave it,

    love, love, love,

    but to stay.

 The Saddest Poem

    I can e t poem of all tonight.

    rite, for instance: quot;t is full of stars,

    and tars, blue, sance.quot;

    t wind whe sky and sings.

    I can e t poem of all tonight.

    I loved imes soo.

    On nighis, I held her in my arms.

    I kissed imes under te sky.

    Simes I loved her.

    ill eyes?

    I can e t poem of all tonight.

    to t o feel t Ive lost her.

    to , more immense  her.

    And to to grass.

    does it matter t my love couldnt keep her.

    t is full of stars and s h me.

    ts all. Far away, someone sings. Far away.

    My soul is lost  her.

    As if to bring her near, my eyes search for her.

    My  searc h me.

    t t rees.

    e, we whe same no longer.

    I no longer love rue, but how much I loved her.

    My voice searco touch her ear.

    Someone elses. She will be someone elses. As she once

    belonged to my kisses.

    body. e eyes.

    I no longer love rue, but perhaps I love her.

    Love is so s and oblivion so long.

    Because on nighis I held her in my arms,

    my soul is lost  her.

    Alt pain she causes me,

    and t poem I e for her.

 The Song of Despair

You sance.

    Like time.

    In you everything sank!

    It  and the kiss.

    t blazed like a lighthouse.

    Pilots dread, fury of a blind diver,

    turbulent drunkenness of love,

    in you everything sank!

 The Weary One

    the weary one, orphan

    of the self,

    te,

    t a country in croaurants,

    ed to go far aher away,

    didnt knoo do ted

    or didnt  to leave or remain on the island,

    tant one, tangled in himself,

    raigone,

    te look of te prism,

    tude all banished him:

    somewh his sorrows,

    urned to tive land,

    to er and summer.

 The White Mans Burden

    Lost in t, I broke off a dark twig

    and lifted its y lips:

    maybe it he rain crying,

    a cracked bell, or a torn .

    Somet seemed

    deep and secret to me, h,

    a s muffled by umns,

    by t he leaves.

    akening from t the hazel-sprig

    sang under my tongue, its drifting fragrance

    climbed up through my conscious mind

    as if suddenly ts I  behind

    cried out to me, t h my childhood---

    and I stopped,

 Tonight I Can Write

    tonige t lines.

    rite, for example, t is starry

    and tars are blue and sance.

    t he sky and sings.

    tonige t lines.

    I loved imes soo.

    ts like this one I held her in my arms.

    I kissed he endless sky.

    Simes I loved oo.

    still eyes.

    tonige t lines.

    to t I do not o feel t I  her.

    to , still more immense  her.

    And to to ture.

    does it matter t my love could not keep her.

    t is starry and s h me.

    tance someone is singing. In tance.

    My soul is not satisfied t it  her.

    My sigries to find o bring her closer.

    My  looks for  h me.

    t rees.

    e, of t time, are no longer the same.

    I no longer love s certain, but how I loved her.

    My voice tried to find to touch her hearing.

    Anothers. As she was before my kisses.

    body. e eyes.

    I no longer love s certain, but maybe I love her.

    Love is so s, forgetting is so long.

    Because ts like this one I held her in my arms

    my soul is not satisfied t it  her.

    t pain t she makes me suffer

    and t verses t I e for her.

 Tonight I can write the saddest lines

    tonige t lines.

    rite, for example,t is stered

    and tars sance.

    t he sky and sings.

    tonige t lines.

    I loved imes soo.

    ts like this one I held her in my arms

    I kissed he endless sky.

    Simes, and I loved oo.

    still eyes.

    tonige t lines.

    to t I do not o feel t I  her.

    to , still more immense  her.

    And to to ture.

    does it matter t my love could not keep her.

    t is stered and s h me.

    tance someone is singing. In tance.

    My soul is not satisfied t it  her.

    My sigo go to her.

    My  looks for  h me.

    t rees.

    e, of t time, are no longer the same.

    I no longer love s certain, but how I loved her.

    My voice tried to find to touch her hearing.

    Anothers. Like my kisses before.

    body. e eyes.

    I no longer love s certain, but maybe I love her.

    Love is so s, forgetting is so long.

    Because ts like this one I held her in my arms

    my sould is not satisfied t it  her.

    t pain t she makes me suffer

    and t verses t I e for her.

 Tower Of Light

    O tower of ligy

    t magnified necklaces and statues in the sea,

    calcareous eye, insignia of t ers, cry

    of trel, toothe sea, wife

    of te rose

    from tem of trampled bush

    t ted into archipelago,

    O natural star, green diadem,

    alone in your lonesome dynasty,

    still unattainable, elusive, desolate

    like one drop, like one grape, like the sea.

 Walking Around

    It so happens I am sick of being a man.

    And it  I o tailorshops and movie

    houses

    dried up, erproof, like a s

    steering my er of wombs and ashes.

    to hoarse

    sobs.

    t is to lie still like stones or wool.

    t is to see no more stores, no gardens,

    no more goods, no spectacles, no elevators.

    It so  I am sick of my feet and my nails

    and my hair and my shadow.

    It so happens I am sick of being a man.

    Still it would be marvelous

    to terrify a la lily,

    or kill a nun he ear.

    It

    to go treets h a green knife

    letting out yells until I died of the cold.

    I dont  to go on being a root in the dark,

    insecure, stretc, sh sleep,

    going on doo t guts of th,

    taking in and ting every day.

    I dont  so much misery.

    I dont  to go on as a root and a tomb,

    alone under th corpses,

    half frozen, dying of grief.

    ts w sees me coming

    face, blazes up like gasoline,

    and it s way like a wounded wheel,

    and leaves tracks full of ohe

    night.

    And it puso certain corners, into some moist

    houses,

    into als he window,

    into s smell like vinegar,

    and certain streets he skin.

    testines

    I e,

    and teetten in a coffeepot,

    there are mirrors

    t ougo  from serror,

    there are umbrellas everywhere, and venoms, and umbilical

    cords.

    I stroll along serenely, h my eyes, my shoes,

    my rage, forgetting everything,

    I hopedic

    shops,

    and courtyards he line:

    underowels and ss from which slow

    dirty tears are falling.

    translated by Robert Bly

 Water

    Everytled, the bramble

    pricked and thread

    nibbled aal fell, falling

    until tself.

    ater is anotter,

    ion but its o grace,

    runs through all imaginable colors,

    takes limpid lessons

    from stone,

    and i<strike>£è£ôt£ð://£÷£÷£÷?£¹9£ìib.£î£åt</strike>n tionings plays out

    tions of the foam.

 We Are Many

    Of the many men whom I am, whom we are,

    I cannot settle on a single one.

    t to me under thing

    ted for anoty.

    o be set

    to selligence,

    the fool I keep concealed on my person

    takes over my talk and occupies my mouth.

    On ot

    of people of some distinction,

    and when I summon my courageous self,

    a coely unknoo me

    son

    in a tiny reservations.

    ately s into flames,

    instead of the fireman I summon,

    an arsonist bursts on the scene,

    and hing I can do.

    must I do to distinguish myself?

    myself together?

    All the books I read

    lionize dazzling hero figures,

    brimming h self-assurance.

    I die hem;

    and, in films he wind,

    I am left in envy of the cowboys,

    left admiring even the horses.

    But when I call upon my DAShING BEING,

    out comes the same OLD LAZY SELF,

    and so I never kno hO I AM,

    nor how many I am, nor hO E ILL BE BEING.

    I o be able to touch a bell

    and call up my real self, truly me,

    because if I really need my proper self,

    I must not alloo disappear.

    ing, I am far away;

    and w.

    I so see if thing happens

    to ot does to me,

    to see if as many people are as I am,

    and if to themselves.

    horoughly explored,

    I am going to schings

    t, o explain my problems,

    I s of self, but of geography.

 XVII (I do not love you...)

    I do not love you as if you -rose, or topaz,

    or tions ts off.

    I love you as certain dark to be loved,

    in secret, bethe soul.

    I love you as t t never blooms

    but carries in itself t of hidden flowers;

    to your love a certain solid fragrance,

    risen from th, lives darkly in my body.

    I love you  knowing how, or when, or from where.

    I love you straig complexities or pride;

    so I love you because I knoher way

    t exist, nor you,

    so close t your  is my hand,

    so close t your eyes close as I fall asleep.

    translated by Stepapscott

    Anonymous Submission

 XXXIV (You are the daughter of the sea)

    You are ter of t cousin.

    Ser;

    cook, your blood is quick as the soil.

    Everyth.

    Your eyes go out toer, and the waves rise;

    your  to the seeds swell;

    you knoer and th,

    conjoined in you like a formula for clay.

    Naiad: cut your body into turquoise pieces,

    ted in tchen.

    t lives.

    And so at last, you sleep, in the circle of my arms

    t pus you can rest--

    vegetables, seaweed, he foam of your dreams.

    translated by Stepapscott

    Submitted by hen

 Your Feet

    look at your face

    I look at your feet.

    Your feet of arched bone,

    your tle feet.

    I kno t you,

    and t your s

    rises upon them.

    Your  and your breasts,

    the doubled purple

    of your nipples,

    ts of your eyes

    t  flown away,

    your  mouth,

    your red tresses,

    my little tower.

    But I love your feet

    only because they walked

    upon th and upon

    ters,

    until they found me.

 Your Laughter

    take bread away from me, if you wish,

    take air a

    do not take from me your laughter.

    Do not take ahe rose,

    t you pluck,

    ter t suddenly

    bursts forth in joy,

    the sudden wave

    of silver born in you.

    My struggle is harsh and I come back

    ired

    at times from having seen

    th,

    but ers

    it rises to the sky seeking me

    and it opens for me all

    the doors of life.

    My love, in t

    er

    opens, and if suddenly

    you see my blood staining

    tones of treet,

    lauger

    will be for my hands

    like a fresh sword.

    Next to tumn,

    your laug raise

    its foamy cascade,

    and in the spring, love,

    I  your laughter like

    ting for,

    the rose

    of my ecry.

    Laug t,

    at t the moon,

    laug ted

    streets of the island,

    laug this clumsy

    boy who loves you,

    but when I open

    my eyes and close them,

    weps go,

    urn,

    deny me bread, air,

    light, spring,

    but never your laughter

    for I would die.