I no longer love her, true, but how much I loved her. Mi alma no se contenta con haberla perdido. You girdled sorrow, you clung to desire, sadness stunned you, in you everything sank! And the poem falls to the soul as dew to grass. In you the wars and the flights accumulated. The wind can't actually sing like a human, but Neruda personifies it this way to add to the melancholy feeling or tone of the poem. Till, on a day, each by the other, the artichoke moves to its dream of a market place in the big willow hoppers: a battle formation.
I loved her, and sometimes she loved me too. Como para acercarla mi mirada la busca. Death arrives among all that sound like a shoe with no foot in it, like a suit with no man in it, comes and knocks, using a ring with no stone in it, with no finger in it, comes and shouts with no mouth, with no tongue, with no throat. Dust in the wheat, sand in the deserts, time, wandering water, the vague wind swept us like sailing seeds. Tonight I can write the saddest lines.
The same night whitening the same the same trees. Excerpt:- I am coming to speak for and through your dead mouths. From you the wings of the song birds rose. She will be someone else's. 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 other way of loving but this, in which there is no I or you, so intimate that your hand upon my chest is my hand, so intimate that when I fall asleep it is your eyes that close. Yo paseo con calma, con ojos, con zapatos, con furia, con olvido, paso, cruzo oficinas y tiendas de ortopedia, y patios donde hay ropas colgadas de un alambre: calzoncillos, toallas y camisas que lloran lentas lágrimas sucias. It is the hour of departure, oh deserted one! But, by the end of the poem, after going back and forth between missing her, loving her, and sometimes loving her, he decides that this poem will be the last one for her.
And the verse falls to the soul like dew to the pasture. I'm not sure, I understand only a little, I can hardly see, but it seems to me that its singing has the color of damp violets, of violets that are at home in the earth, because the face of death is green, and the look death gives is green, with the penetrating dampness of a violet leaf and the somber color of embittered winter. I loved her, and sometimes she loved me too. Love is so short, forgetting is so long. Shaking of all the roots, attack of all the waves! Who writes your name in letters of smoke among the stars of the south? The same night that whitens the same trees. To feel that I've lost her.
I can write the saddest poem of all tonight. Considered one of his most influential books, it focuses on the entire history of the New World from the perspective of a Hispanic American. But Then Maria Comes With her basket She chooses An artichoke, She's not afraid of it. On nights like this, I held her in my arms. What does it matter that my love could not keep her. You, woman, what were you there, what ray, what vane of that immense fan? But best of all, I love the last line the saddest line of all? La bese tantas veces bajo el cielo infinito.
We, we who were, we are the same no longer. In other lines throughout the poem, the speaker revels in the memory of his lost love, saying lines like: 'How could one not have loved her great still eyes. What does it matter that my love could not keep her. Swimmer, your body is pure as the water; cook, your blood is quick as the soil. I hunger for your sleek laugh, your hands the color of a savage harvest, hunger for the pale stones of your fingernails, I want to eat your skin like a whole almond. How could I not have loved her large, still eyes? El olor de las peluquerías me hace llorar a gritos. Pilot's dread, fury of blind driver, turbulent drunkenness of love, in you everything sank! We will fulfill any request from copyright holders to have any particular poem removed from our website.
Eventually a conservative regime was established but later this was superceded by a liberal movement that would have been prominent when this poem was written. So you have it: a vegetable, armed, a profession call it an artichoke whose end is millennial. Although this may be the last pain she causes me, and this may be the last poem I write for her. However, it was Twenty Love Poems and a Song of Despair that made him the much-quoted Latin American poet. I love you as the plant that never blooms but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers; thanks to your love a certain solid fragrance, risen from the earth, lives darkly in my body. Puedo escribir los versos mas tristes esta noche.
You've asked me what the lobster is weaving there with his golden feet? How could one not not have loved her great, still eyes? I no longer love her, true, but perhaps I love her. It takes a horrid look at society from the point of view of the struggling classes. My sight tries to find her as though to bring her closer. Es tan corto el amor, y es tan largo el olvido. The same night whitening the same trees. My soul is lost without her.
And you'll ask: why doesn't his poetry speak of dreams and leaves and the great volcanoes of his native land? Como antes de mis besos. I loved her, and sometimes she loved me too. Tell me everything, chain by chain, link by link, and step by step. Headlong, violent, stretched towards the sky. Her voice, her light body. She loved me, sometimes I loved her. The same night that whitens the same trees.