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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.
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... so intimate that your hand upon my chest is my hand, so intimate that when I fall asleep your eyes close.
-Pablo Naruda
“My feet will want to walk to where you are sleeping, but I shall go on living.” Pablo Neruda
Leaning into the evenings
Leaning into the evenings I throw my sad nets To your ocean eyes There my loneliness stretches and burns in the tallest bonfire, Arms twisting like a drowning mans I cast red signals over your absent eyes Which lap like the sea at the lighthouse shore. You guard only darkness, my distant female, Sometimes the coast of dread emerges from your stare. Leaning into the evenings I toss my sad nets To that sea which stirs your ocean eyes. The night birds peck at the first stars that twinkle like my soul as I love you. Night gallops on her shadowy mate Scattering blue wear stalks over the fields. -Pablo Naruda Translation Mark Eisner
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I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where. I love you simply, without problems or pride: I love you in this way because I do not know any other way of loving but this, in which there is no I or you, so intimate that your hand upon my chest is my hand, so intimate that when I fall asleep your eyes close.
Pablo Naruda | 100 Love Sonnets
If your eyes were not the color of the moon, of a day full of clay, and work, and fire,
if even held-in you did not move in agile grace like the air, if you were not an amber week, not the yellow moment when autumn climbs up through the vines; if you were not that bread the fragrant moon kneads, sprinkling its flour across the sky, oh, my dearest, I could not love you so! But when I hold you I hold everything that is - sand, time, the tree of the rain, everything is alive so that I can be alive: without moving I can see it all: in your life I see everything that lives.
KEEPING QUIET
by Pablo Neruda
Now we will count to twelve and we will all keep still.
For once on the face of the earth, let’s not speak in any language; let’s stop for one second, and not move our arms so much.
It would be an exotic moment without rush, without engines; we would all be together in a sudden strangeness.
Fisherman in the cold sea would not harm whales and the man gathering salt would look at his hurt hands.
Those who prepare green wars, wars with gas, wars with fire, victories with no survivors, would put on clean clothes and walk about with their brothers in the shade, doing nothing.
What I want should not be confused with total inactivity. Life is what it is about; I want no truck with death.
If we were not so single-minded about keeping our lives moving, and for once could do nothing, perhaps a huge silence might interrupt this sadness of never understanding ourselves and of threatening ourselves with death. Perhaps the earth can teach us as when everything seems dead and later proves to be alive.
Now I’ll count up to twelve and you keep quiet and I will go.
