We have lost even this twilight.
No one saw us this evening hand in hand
while the blue night dropped on the world.
I have seen from my window
the fiesta of sunset in the distant mountain tops.
Sometimes a piece of sun
burned like a coin in my hand.
I remembered you with my soul clenched
in that sadness of mine that you know.
Where were you then?
Who else was there?
Saying what?
Why will the whole of love come on me suddenly
when I am sad and feel you are far away?
The book fell that always closed at twilight
and my blue sweater rolled like a hurt dog at my feet.
Always, always you recede through the evenings
toward the twilight erasing statues.
-Pablo Neruda
As usual with Neruda I try to pick a favorite line and I can't chose just one.
I love the image he creates with:
The book fell that always closed at twilight
and my blue sweater rolled like a hurt dog at my feet....
His work is always painfully beautiful.
What do you think of this one?
(I took the photo above in the wee hours of the morning along the beach in Puerto Rico last summer. Just looking at that shot I can remember the soft sound of the waves.)
