4:38 am, somehow i don't feel like going back to sleep, my mind travels between watching a movie or listening to music. I choose music, and my mind continues its random travels, until it stops at an article link someone sent me a few days ago. i have not read it in depth, but the title has stayed with me: do you have 18 minutes every day for poetry? How long have i not read poetry even once a week? i dare not calculate.
It is pitch darkness outside, peaceful chopin inside. I read pablo neruda.
And I came across this poem, his soneto xvii, sonnet no. 17:
No te como si fueras rosa de sal, topacio
o flecha de claveles que propagan el fuego:
te amo como se aman ciertas cosas oscuras,
secretamente, entre la sombra y el alma.
Te amo como la planta que no florece y lleva
dentro de sí, escondida, la luz de aquellas flores,
y gracias a tu amor vive oscuro en mi cuerpo
el apretado aroma que ascendió de la tierra.
Te amo sin saber como, ni cuándo, ni de donde,
te amo directamente sin problemas ni orgullo:
así te amo porque no sé amar de otra manera,
sino así de este modo en que no soy ni eres,
tan cerca que tu mano sobre mi pecho es mía,
tan cerca que se cierran tus ojos con mi sueño.
i could have sent you one of its english translations by others, the professional translators, but somehow, after reading a few different versions in this half awake half asleep state, i feel like doing it again.
I love you not,
as if you were the rose of salt,
the stone of topaz,
or the arrow of carnations that shoot off fire.
I love you like one loves certain obscure things,
between the shadow and the soul.
I love you,
as the plant that does not bloom,
carrying within it, hidden,
the light of those flowers.
and thanks to your love,
there live in my body, darkly,
this dense aroma that arise from the earth.
I love you without knowing how,
no why or where from.
I love you directly,
no problems, no pride:
I love you thus since I do not know
how to love any other way.
Only that in this manner,
I am no longer me,
you are no longer you.
we are so close that your hand upon my chest is mine,
so close that your eyes are closed
with my dream.
What is rosa de sal, rose of salt, do you think? Perhaps he means rose of sea? Does something like sea rose exist? And el apretado aroma, the dense aroma? Neruda's words are so hauntingly mesmerizing that i feel like staying in them, just a little bit longer.
I read him, translate him and write to you all with company of Chopin nocturnes, perhaps you would like to try, if only just no. 17.
from thousands of miles away,