Sonnet LXXI by Pablo Neruda

(via sheddingoursummerskin)

Love crosses its islands, from grief to grief,

it sets roots, watered with tears,

and no one – no one – can escape the heart’s progress

as it runs, silent and carnivorous.

You and I searched for a wide valley, for another planet

where the salt wouldn’t touch your hair,

where sorrows couldn’t grow because of anything I did,

where bread could live and not grow old.

A planet entwined with vistas and foliage,

a plain, a rock, hard and unoccupied:

we wanted to build a strong nest

with our own hands, without hurt or harm or speech,

but love was not like that: love was a lunatic city

with crowds of people blanching in their porches.

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