Pablo Neruda - Tonight I can write the saddest lines

Pablo Neruda is one of a poet which - sadly to my discredit - I didn't find out until recently. He wrote in Spanish - and later on his works were translated into other languages. I'm not sure how much was lost in translation. But usually much of the smoothness, the style, the poetry and dance of the language is missing when a translation occurs. I've got to learn Spanish one day.

I find reading this sort of poetry quite cathartic. I had a friend whom I liked disappear from my life. I miss her. I miss her companionship, her laughter, her joy. If I met with her again, I would not ask her whether she would miss me. Of course it would make me happy if she said yes. But it seems pointless because she would say no. And even if she said yes I would doubt her sincerity. There are somethings you do not find out by asking. You can only find out by knowing.

If I met my girl. I would hold her hand and enjoy the small touch. Leaning forward I would lightly hold her shoulder and kiss her forehead, breathing the fragrance of her hair. If she recoils I would hold back and smile sadly. But if she leans towards me rubbing her head against my chest. My delight would be complete. I'd wrap my arms around her small waist and lift her lithe frame up to me. Rubbing my nose against hers, I'd look into her eyes and gently press my lips on her lips. One, two, three, she closes her eyes and I close mine and we kiss and embrace.

Tonight I can write the saddest lines

Tonight I can write the saddest lines.

Write, for example,'The night is shattered
and the blue stars shiver in the distance.'

The night wind revolves in the sky and sings.

Tonight I can write the saddest lines.
I loved her, and sometimes she loved me too.

Through nights like this one I held her in my arms
I kissed her again and again under the endless sky.

She loved me sometimes, and I loved her too.
How could one not have loved her great still eyes.

Tonight I can write the saddest lines.
To think that I do not have her. To feel that I have lost her.

To hear the immense night, still more immense without her.
And the verse falls to the soul like dew to the pasture.

What does it matter that my love could not keep her.
The night is shattered and she is not with me.

This is all. In the distance someone is singing. In the distance.
My soul is not satisfied that it has lost her.

My sight searches for her as though to go to her.
My heart looks for her, and she is not with me.

The same night whitening the same trees.
We, of that time, are no longer the same.

I no longer love her, that's certain, but how I loved her.
My voice tried to find the wind to touch her hearing.

Another's. She will be another's. Like my kisses before.
Her voide. Her bright body. Her infinite eyes.

I no longer love her, that's certain, but maybe I love her.
Love is so short, forgetting is so long.

Because through nights like this one I held her in my arms
my soul is not satisfied that it has lost her.

Though this be the last pain that she makes me suffer
and these the last verses that I write for her.

Pablo Neruda