I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where, I love you simply, without problems or pride: I love you in this way because I don’t know any… - Pablo Neruda

Un pilar soportando consuelos
Y no me digan nada
¿Y bien? ¿Te sana el metaloide pálido?
Tengo un miedo terrible de ser un animal
íY, si después de tantos palabras
La cólera que quiebra al hombre en niños

The days aren't discarded or collected, they are bees
that burned with sweetness or maddened
the sting: the struggle continues,
the journeys go and come between honey and pain.
No, the net of years doesn't unweave: there is no net.
They don't fall drop by drop from a river: there is no river.
Sleep doesn't divide life into halves,
or action, or silence, or honor:
life is like a stone, a single motion,
a lonesome bonfire reflected on the leaves,
an arrow, only one, slow or swift, a metal
that climbs or descends burning in your bones.

Over your breasts of motionless current,
over your legs of firmness and water,
over the permanence and 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, alone with a syllable
of mangled silver, alone with a tip
of your breast of snow.