Sonata
her the heart cut by a piece of glass
in a wasteland of thorns
nor the atrocious waters seen in the ers
of certain houses, waters like eyelids and eyes
capture your waist in my hands
when my heart lifts its oaks
towards your unbreakable thread of snow.
Noal sugar, spirit
of the s,
ransomed
human blood, your kisses
send into exile
and a stroke of water, with remnants of the sea,
s on the silehat wait for you
surrounding the worn chairs, wearing out doors.
Nights with bright spindles,
divided, material, nothing
but voiothing but
naked every day.
Over your breasts of motionless current,
over ys of firmness and water,
over the permanend the pride
of your naked hair
I want to be, my love, now that the tears are
thrown
into the raucous baskets where they accumulate,
I want to be, my love, aloh a syllable
of mangled silver, aloh a tip
of your breast of snow.
Pablo Neruda
(ò﹏ò)
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