Over your breasts of motionless current,
and a stroke of water, with remnants of the sea,
human blood, your kisses
surrounding the worn chairs, wearing out doors.
I want to be, my love, alone with a syllable
when my heart lifts its oaks
divided, material, nothing
of certain houses, waters like eyelids and e九_九_藏_书_网yes
of your naked hair
into the raucous baskets where they accumulate,
of the crowns,
send into exile
Pablo Neruda
Nocturnal sugar, spirit
Neit九*九*藏*书*网 her the heart cut by a piece of glass
thrown
ransomed
towards your unbreakable thread of snow.
neats on the silences that wait for you
in a wasteland of thorns
九*九*藏*书*网I want to be, my love, now that the tears are
Sonata
of mangled silver, alone with a tip
over your legs of firmness and water,
nor the atrocious waters se九-九-藏-书-网 en in the corners
can capture your waist in my hands
of your breast of snow.
over the permanence and the pride
naked every day.
but voice, nothing but
Nights with bright spindles,