I want you
to know
one thing.
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You know
how this is:
if I look at the crystal moon,
at the red branch
of the slow autumn at my window,
if I touch
near the fire
the impalpable ash
or the wrinkled body of the log,
everything carries me to you,
as if everything that exists,
aromas, light, metals,
were little boats that sail
toward those isles of yours that wait for me.
Well,
now,
if little by little you stop loving me
I shall
stop loving you
little by little.
If suddenly you forget me do not look for me,
for I shall already
have forgotten you.
If you think it long and mad,
the wind of banners that passes through my life,
and you decide to leave me
at the shore of the heart where I have roots,
remember that on that day,
at that hour,
I shall lift my arms
and
my roots will set off to seek another land.
But if each day,
each hour,
you feel that you are destined for me
with implacable sweetness,
if each day a flower
climbs up to your lips to seek me,
ah my love,
ah my own,
in me all that fire is repeated,
in me nothing is extinguished or forgotten,
my love feeds on your love,
beloved,
and as long as you live it
will be in your arms
without leaving mine.
Pablo Neruda
