Neither the heart cut by a piece of glass <br />in a wasteland of thorns <br />nor the atrocious waters seen in the corners <br />of certain houses, waters like eyelids and eyes <br />can capture your waist in my hands <br />when my heart lifts its oaks <br />towards your unbreakable thread of snow. <br /> <br />Nocturnal sugar, spirit <br />of the crowns, <br />ransomed <br />human blood, your kisses <br />send into exile <br />and a stroke of water, with remnants of the sea, <br />neats on the silences that wait for you <br />surrounding the worn chairs, wearing out doors. <br /> <br />Nights with bright spindles, <br />divided, material, nothing <br />but voice, nothing but <br />naked every day. <br /> <br />Over your breasts of motionless current, <br />over your legs of firmness and water, <br />over the permanence and the pride <br />of your naked hair <br />I want to be, my love, now that the tears are <br />thrown <br />into the raucous baskets where they accumulate, <br />I want to be, my love, alone with a syllable <br />of mangled silver, alone with a tip <br />of your breast of snow.<br /><br />Pablo Neruda<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/sonata/
