By Pablo Neruda

It rains

over the sand, over the roof

the theme

of the rain:

the long ls of rain fall slowly

over the pages

of my everlasting love,

this salt of every day:

rain, return to your old nest,

return with your needles to the past:

today I long for the whitest space,

winter’s whiteness for a branch

of green rosebush and golden roses:

something of infinite spring

that today was waiting, under a cloudless sky

and whiteness was waiting,

when the rain returned

to sadly drum

against the window,

then to dance with unmeasured fury

over my heart and over the roof,


its place,

asking me for a cup

to fill once more with needles,

with transparent time,

with tears.

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