March 8, 2012

Ode with a Lament

Oh girl among the roses, oh crush of doves,
oh fortress of fishes and rosebushes,
your soul is a bottle filled with thirsty salt
and your skin, a bell filled grapes.

Unfortunately I have only fingernails to give you,
or eyelashes, or melted pianos,
or dreams that come spurting from my heart,
dusty dreams that run like black horsemen,
dreams filled with velocities and misfortunes.

I can love you only with kisses and poppies,
with garlands wet by the rain,
looking at ash-gray horses and yellow dogs.
I can love you only with waves at my back,
amid vague sulphur blows and brooding waters,
swimming against the cemeteries that flow in
certain rivers
with wet fodder growing over the sad plaster
swimming across submerged hearts
and pale lists of unburied children.

There is much death, many funereal events
in my forsaken passions and desolate kisses,
there is the water that falls upon my head,
while my hair grows,
a water like time, a black unchained water,
with a nocturnal voice, with a shout
of birds in the rain, with an interminable
wet-winged shadow that protects my bones:
while I dress, while
interminably I look at myself in mirrors and
I hear someone who follows me, sobbing to me
with a sad voice rotted by time.

You stand upon the earth, filled
with teeth and lightning.
You spread the kisses and kill the ants.
You weep with health, with onion, with bee,
with burning alphabet.
You are like a blue and green sword
and you ripple, when I touch you, like a river.

Come to my heart dressed in white, with a
of bloody roses and goblets of ashes,
come with an apple and a horse,
because there is dark room there and a broken
some twisted chairs waiting for winter,
and a dead dove, with a number.


~ Pablo Neruda

I love this, its tone of loss and electric love, of inevitability, which is different from destiny—a sadder thing.  It reminds me for some reason of my protagonist and her love interest, which worries me.  I hope I’ll be able to write them a happy ending.