Love For This Book

　　by Pablo Neruda （Translated by Clark Zlotchew and Dennis Maloney）

　　 In these lonely regions I have been powerful

　　 in the same way as a cheerful tool

　　 or like untrammeled grass which lets loose its seed

　　 or like a dog rolling around in the dew.

　　 Matilde， time will pass wearing out and burning

　　 another skin， other fingernails， other eyes， and then

　　 the algae that lashed our wild rocks，

　　 the waves that unceasingly construct their own whiteness，

　　 all will be firm without us，

　　 all will be ready for the new days，

　　 which will not know our destiny.

　　 What do we leave here but the lost cry

　　 of the seabird， in the sand of winter， in the gusts of wind

　　 that cut our faces and kept us

　　 erect in the light of purity，

　　 as in the heart of an illustrious star？

　　 What do we leave， living like a nest

　　 of surly birds， alive， among the thickets

　　 or static， perched on the frigid cliffs？

　　 So then， if living was nothing more than anticipating

　　 the earth， this soil and its harshness，

　　 deliver me， my love， from not doing my duty， and help me

　　 return to my place beneath the hungry earth.

　　 We asked the ocean for its rose，

　　 its open star， its bitter contact，

　　 and to the overburdened， to the fellow human being， to the wounded

　　 we gave the freedom gathered in the wind.

　　 It's late now. Perhaps

　　 it was only a long day the color of honey and blue，

　　 perhaps only a night， like the eyelid

　　 of a grave look that encompassed

　　 the measure of the sea that surrounded us，

　　 and in this territory we found only a kiss，

　　 only ungraspable love that will remain here

　　 wandering among the sea foam and roots