Tuesday, March 03, 2009

Sonnet XVII

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.

2 comments:

d said...

omg so soppy
i love.
help.

A. said...

Ses purs ongles très haut dédiant leur onyx

L’Angoisse, ce minuit, soutient, lampadophore,

Maint rêve vespéral brûlé par le Phénix

Que ne recueille pas de cinéraire amphore



Sur les crédences, au salon vide: nul ptyx,

Aboli bibelot d’inanité sonore,

(Car le Maître est allé puiser des pleurs au Styx

Avec ce seul objet dont le Néant s’honore).



Mais proche las Croisée au nord vacante, un or

Agonise selon peut-être le décor

"Ses purs ongles très haut dédiant leur onyx"

Des locornes ruant du feu contre une nixe,



Elle, défunte nue en le miroir, encor

Que, dans l’oubli fermé par le cadre, se fixe
De scintillations sitôt le septuor.


Her pure nails on high dedicating their onyx,

Anguish, at midnight, supports a lamp-holder,

Many a twilight dream burnt by the Phoenix

That won’t be gathered in some ashes’ amphora


On a table, in the empty room: here is no ptyx,

Abolished bauble of sonorous uselessness,

(Since the Master’s gone to draw tears from the Styx

With that sole object, vanity of Nothingness).



But near the casement wide to the north,

A gold is dying, in accord with the décor

Perhaps, those unicorns dashing fire at a nixie,

She who, naked and dead in the mirror, yet

In the oblivion enclosed by the frame, is fixed

By scintillations as soon as the septet.

Mallarme