When your hands leap <br />towards mine, love, <br />what do they bring me in flight? <br />Why did they stop <br />at my lips, so suddenly, <br />why do I know them, <br />as if once before, <br />I have touched them, <br />as if, before being, <br />they travelled <br />my forehead, my waist? <br />Their smoothness came <br />winging through time, <br />over the sea and the smoke, <br />over the Spring, <br />and when you laid <br />your hands on my chest <br />I knew those wings <br />of the gold doves, <br />I knew that clay, <br />and that colour of grain. <br />The years of my life <br />have been roadways of searching, <br />a climbing of stairs, <br />a crossing of reefs. <br />Trains hurled me onwards <br />waters recalled me, <br />on the surface of grapes <br />it seemed that I touched you. <br />Wood, of a sudden, <br />made contact with you, <br />the almond-tree summoned <br />your hidden smoothness, <br />until both your hands <br />closed on my chest, <br />like a pair of wings <br />ending their flight.<br /><br />Pablo Neruda<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/your-hands-2/
