Some mornings you can see the light of the universe.
Stirring view, that thrives in the folds of the darkness.
You are moving through this light ahead that holds a secret
for the clambering of moths, each night, between the beams.
We are the love nobody has seen since the light was born.
Let us spread out among yellow stars.
To write our names in letters of dust among the galaxies.
Oh let us color love as love was before you existed.
Slowly the celestial tides and bursts all shutter at this window.
The earth's sky is a rake with shadows of life.
There all the lights let go of their luster sooner or later.
The sun takes off her clothes.
The moon goes by, fleeting.
The light. The dust.
I can compare it only against the darkness of space.
The storm that whirls invisible leaves
and turns loose all the boats that were moored last night to Jupiter.
We are there. Oh, you do not float this way.
But will you answer us this last wonder.
Strapped to one as though one were freewheeling.
Uneven through all time in strange shadows that feast on your fears.
Zero, zero to just one, we bring homesickness,
and wishes made in beastly wells of stone.
While the stellar wind goes slaughtering nebulas
We love you, and your happiness is the light in the void.
How you lust and suffer even after we are,
too strange, solitaire stars, our names that are so unimportant.
So distant at times we have seen the morning star burn, kissing our eyes,
and could do nothing but bow our heads in grey light.
These words rained into you, soaking you.
All along time we have loved the sunned soil of your planet.
We go so far as to think that you are the universe.
We will be your happy daisies of the galaxy, bluebells, dark hazels, and rustic swirls of particles.
We are
only with you when you look up, past the cherry trees.
Every Day You Play by Pablo Neruda from
Twenty Love Poems and Songs of Despair
Every day you play with the light of the universe.
Subtle visitor, you arrive in the flower and the water.
You are more than this white head that I hold tightly
as a cluster of fruit, every day, between my hands.
You are like nobody since I love you.
Let me spread you out among yellow garlands.
Who writes your name in letters of smoke among the stars of the south?
Oh let me remember you as you were before you existed.
Suddenly the wind howls and bangs at my shut window.
The sky is a net crammed with shadowy fish.
Here all the winds let go sooner or later, all of them.
The rain takes off their clothes.
The birds go by, fleeing.
The wind. The wind.
I can contend only against the power of men.
The storm whirls dark leaves
and turns loose all the boats that were moored last night to the sky.
You are here. Oh, you do not run away.
You will answer me to the last cry.
Cling to me as though you were frightened.
Even so, at one time a strange shadow ran through your eyes.
Now, now too, little one, you bring me honeysuckle,
and even your breasts smell of it.
While the sad wind goes slaughtering butterflies
I love you, and my happiness bites the plum of your mouth.
How you must have suffered getting accustomed to me,
my savage, solitary soul, my name that sends them all running.
So many times we have seen the morning star burn, kissing our eyes,
and over our heads that grey light unwind in turning fans.
My words rained over you, stroking you.
A long time I have loved the sunned mother-of-pearl of your body.
I go so far as to think that you own the universe.
I will bring you happy flowers from the mountains, bluebells, dark hazels, and rustic baskets of kisses.
I want
to do with you what spring does with the cherry trees.
