I'm here to love you.
In the dark pine forest the wind unbinds itself.
The moon glows like a mistletoe on floating water.
Days, day after day, chasing each other.
Snow fluttered against the wind in dancing forms.
A silver gull glides down from the west.
Sometimes a ship. A high cluster of stars.
Oh, the ship's black cross.
Alone.
Sometimes I wake up in the morning and my soul is even still wet.
Far away, the ocean chirps and echoes.
It is a harbor.
I am here to love you.
I love you here, and the horizon hides you in vain.
I still love you in the midst of these cold things.
Sometimes my kisses travel through these gloomy ships,
across the sea without stopping.
I see myself as forgotten as these ancient anchors.
When twilight anchors there, the docks become mournful.
And my life grew weary, and without cause I thirsted.
I love what I do not have. You are so far away.
My loathing wrestles with the slow twilight.
But night comes and begins to sing to me.
The moon turns his cogged dreams.
The greatest star gazes at me through your eyes.
When I love you, the pines in the wind
will sing your name with their silken leaves.
'Tonight I Can Write'
Tonight I can write the saddest verse.
Write, for example, "The night is studded with stars,
And the stars are distant and blue and trembling."
The night wind swirls and sings in the sky.
I could write the saddest poem tonight.
I love her, and sometimes she loves me.
As tonight's night, I have held her in my arms.
Kissed her over and over again under the endless sky.
She loved me, and sometimes I loved her.
How could I not love her quiet eyes?
I could write the saddest poem tonight.
Going to think that I don't own her, feeling that I have lost her.
Go listen to the vastness of the night, made more vast by not having her.
And the verses fall on the soul as dew falls on pasture.
What does it matter if my love cannot have her?
The night is full of stars and she is not with me.
That's all there is to it. Someone is singing in the distance. In the distance.
My soul is lost without her.
My eyes try to spot her, as if to draw her closer,
My heart seeks her, and she is not with me.
The same night whitens the same woods.
People are no longer similar as we were.
I no longer loved her, that is certain, but how much I had loved her!
My voice tried to find the wind to touch her hearing.
Someone else's, as she had received my thousand kisses, she would be someone else's.
Her voice, her white body. Her endless eyes.
I don't love her anymore, that's for sure, but maybe I do.
Love is so short, and oblivion is too long.
By means of a night such as tonight's, I have held her in my arms
My soul is lost in the loss of her.
It was the last hurt she ever let me bear.
And these are the last verses I wrote for her.
"A Song of Despair"
Memories of you surfaced this night I was there.
The river connects with the sea with its own stubborn moan.
The outcasts are like the docks in the morning sun.
It's time to leave, oh forsaken me.
Cold petals rain down on my heart.
Oh, land of ruins, the cruel cave of the shipwrecked.
In you have experienced war and take-off.
From you the singing bird spreads its wings and flies away.
As if distant, you swallowed everything down.
As if the sea, as if time. Everything about you is shipwrecked!
There have been happy moments of reunions and kisses.
There have been moments of panic like burning tower lights.
The anxiety of the pilot, the fury of the blind diver,
The hazy intoxication of love, all you are is shipwreck!
As in a foggy childhood, my heart has grown wings and been wounded.
Wandering discoverer, all you are is shipwreck!
Pain has haunted you, desire has entangled you,
Sadness has defeated you, all you are is shipwreck!
I have forced back the great walls of darkness,
and have gone further than desire and behavior.
Oh, heart, my heart's child, the woman I have loved and lost,
In this wet hour I call upon thee, to sing for thee. You are like a natural pool of infinite tenderness,
and infinite negativity has shattered you like a broken pool.
It was the solitude of the dark, dark island,
where, lovely one, your arms entertained me.
I was hungry, you were the delicious fruit.
That which hurts and destroys, you are the miracle.
Ah, woman, I don't know how you can keep me
from entering your heart and falling into your cross-shaped arms.
In you, my desires are most terrible and fleeting,
most inverted and intoxicated, most nervous and greedy.
Buried with many kisses, your grave is still hot,
The grapes pecked at by flocks of birds are still still on fire.
Oh, the bitten lips; Oh, the kissed limbs;
Oh, the hungry teeth; Oh, the twisted bodies. Oh, the wild sex of hope and endeavor
I am united with you in love to the fullest.
Soft as water, light as powder.
The words, wanting to be said.
My destiny is such that my desire follows.
My desire fated to fall, and all that you are is shipwrecked.
Oh land of ruins, all that you are is gradually falling,
What pain have you not spoken of? What waves have not flooded thee?
From the trough of the wave to the crest, you still burn and sing.
Standing there like a sailor on the bow of a ship.
Your song still stands out, and you still break the waves.
Oh, land of ruins, the open, bitter well.
Pale, blind diver, unfortunate bombardier!
Wandering discoverer, all thine is shipwreck!
It's time to depart, this hard, cold time
It limits the timetable for the whole night.
The sea's noisy girdle encircles the shore.
Icy stars appear, black flocks of birds migrate in vain.
Abandoned people are like the docks in the morning sun.
Only the quivering black shadow twisted in my hand.
Ah, leave it all, leave it all!
It is time to depart. Oh, outcast child!
Neruda P. (Pablo Neruda 1904-1973) Chilean poet. Formerly known as Neftali Ricardo Reyes Basoalto. Born in a family of railroad workers. Graduated in French at the Chilean Institute of Education in Santiago. He was elected to Congress in 1945 and joined the Chilean ****production party in the same year, but was forced into exile after 1946. he returned to Chile in 1952 and became president of the Chilean Writers' Association in 1957.
Neruda's poetry inherited the tradition of Chilean national poetry and borrowed the characteristics of Spanish national poetry. He was also influenced by French modernist poets such as Baudelaire and Hamble, and even pursued Whitman's free verse form. His early poems, such as the collection of poems "Haze" (1923), "twenty love poems and a song of despair" (1924) with a strong romanticism.