Every Day You Play

I just finished reading Twenty Love Poems & A Song of Despair by the genius Pablo Neruda. I know I'm a bit behind by reading this in 2020 but I kept re-reading each verse multiple times and feeling absorbed to his magnificent words. So here I wrote my favorite poem of this collection as my admiration toward his gorgeous work.

Every Day You Play 

Every day you play with the light of the universe.

Subtle visitor, you arrive in the flower and the water.

You are more than this white head that I hold tightly

as a cluster of fruit, every day, between my hands.

You are like nobody since I love you.

Let me spread you out among yellow garlands.

Who writes your name in letters of smoke among the stars 

    of the south?

Oh let me remember you as were before you existed.

Suddenly the wind howls and bangs at my shut window.

The sky is a net crammed with shadowy fish.

Here all the winds let go sooner or later, all of them.

The rain takes off her clothes.

The birds go by, fleeing.

The wind. The wind.

I can contend only against the power of men.

The storm whirls dark leaves

and turns loose all the boats that were moored last night to 

    the sky.

You are here. Oh, you do not run away.

You will answer me to the last cry.

Cling to me as though you were frightened.

Even so, at one time a strange shadow ran through your eyes.

Now, now too, little one, you bring me honeysuckle,

and even your breasts smell of it.

While the sad wind goes slaughtering butterflies

I love you, and my happiness bites the plum of your mouth.

How you must have suffered getting accustomed to me,

my savage, solitary soul, my name that sends them all

    running.

So many times we have seen the morning star burn, kissing

    our eyes,

and over our heads the grey light unwind in turning fans.

My words rained over you, stroking you.

A long time I have loved the sunned mother-of-pearl of your

    body.

I go as far as to think that you own the universe.

I will bring you happy flowers from the mountain, bluebells,

    dark hazels , and rustic baskets of kisses.

I want

to do with you what spring does with the cherry trees.

by: Pablo Neruda