When your hands leap toward 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. |
poem by Pablo Neruda |
pic by www.leslietong.com |
IN SWEET MEMORY OF 9th DECEMBER 1982 - JANUARY 2th 1983
23 YEARS OF LOVE