XVII (I do not love you...)

I do not love you as if you were salt-rose, or topaz,
or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off.
I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,
in secret, between the shadow and the soul.

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.

I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where.
I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride;
so I love you because I know no other way

than this: where I does not exist, nor you,
so close that your hand on my chest is my hand,
so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep.

~ Pablo Neruda

Lament

Autumn hedgerow led her away from the lanes
The route though nightshade, blackthorn and nettles
Ripped cloth and stung skin, until she emerged -
Into a golden vision of never ending summer

Rosy and bewitched, she paid no heed to auguries;
Solitary roadside magpies, the blue backed swallow and
Pale faces of loved ones, became faded by insatiability:
“Stay on this path; keep to the river, all will be well”

Clumsily, she offered Viola for the open wounds,
Knowing there was not enough truth in their petals.
The remorse went untended, strayed away from their care
And the bold blood knot slipped, uncoupling itself.

So, when came the time for loves hope’s to be uttered;
Two black kites were the only souls to soar that day.
It is said that mistakes from history can’t be changed
But wrongs might be healed, back through the hedgerow