Sonata
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 glassthrown
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 cornerscan 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,