Tuesday, February 28, 2006
Sonnet XXV, by Pablo Neruda
Before I loved you, love, nothing was my own:
I wavered through the streets, among
objects:
nothing mattered or had a name:
the world was made of air, which waited.
I knew rooms full of ashes,
tunnels where the moon lived,a
rough warehouses that growled 'get lost',
questions that insisted in the sand.
Everything was empty, dead, mute,
fallen abandoned, and decayed:
inconceivably alien, it all
belonged to someone else - to no one:
till your beauty and your poverty
filled the autumn plentiful with gifts.
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I syumbled across your blog by accident looking for pictures of books. I've just discovered Neruda and am falling in love. I' now in the mood to write poetry and more importantly, live it.
Thank you.
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Thank you.
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