I waMent you to know
one thing.
You know how this is:
if I look
at the crystal moon, at the red
branch
of the slow autumn at my window,
if I touch
near the fire
the impalpable ash
or the wrinkled body of the log,
everything carries me to you,
as if everything that exists,
aromas, light, metals,
were little boats
that sail
toward those isles of yours that
wait for me.
Well, now,
if little by little you stop
loving me
I shall stop loving you little by
little.
If suddenly
you forget me
do not look for me,
for I shall already have
forgotten you.
If you think it long and mad,
the wind of banners
that passes through my life,
and you decide
to leave me at the shore
of the heart where I have roots,
remember
that on that day,
at that hour,
I shall lift my arms
and my roots will set off
to seek another land.
But
if each day,
each hour,
you feel that you are destined
for me
with implacable sweetness,
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
Pablo
Neruda
(Chile
1904-1973)
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