Friday, March 03, 2006
(by Pablo Neruda)
I can write the saddest poem of all tonight;
Write, for instance: "The night is full of stars,
and the stars, blue, shiver in the distance."
The night wind whirls in the sky and sings.
I can write the saddest poem of all tonight.
I loved her, and sometimes she loved me too.
On nights like this, I held her in my arms.
And I kissed her so many times under the infinite sky.
She loved me, sometimes I loved her.
How could I not have loved her large still eyes?
I can write the saddest poem of all tonight.
To think I don't have her; To feel that I've lost her.
To hear the immense night, more immense without her.
And the verses fall to the soul as dew to grass.
What does it matter that my love couldn't keep her?
The night is full of stars and she is not with me.
That's all. Far away, someone sings. Far away.
My soul is lost without her.
As if to bring her near, my eyes search for her.
My heart searches for her and she is not with me.
The same night whitens the same trees.
We, we who were, we are the same no longer.
I no longer love her, true; but how much I loved her.
My voice searches the wind to touch her ear.
Someone else's. She will be someone else's.
When she once belonged to my kisses.
Her voice, her light body. Her infinite eyes.
I no longer love her, true; but maybe I love her?
Love is so short and forgetting so long.
Because on nights like this I held her in my arms,
my soul is now lost without her.
Although this may be the last pain she causes me,
and this may be the last poem I write for her.
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:: Photo by National Geographic Society Copyright © 2002 ::