By Pablo Neruda
Into the night of the heart
your name drops slowly
and moves in silence and falls
and breaks and spreads its water.
Something wishes for its slight harm
and its infinite and short esteem,
like the step of a lost one
suddenly heard.
Suddenly, suddenly listened to
and spread in the heart
with sad insistence and increase
like a cold autumnal dream.
The thick wheel of the earth,
its tire moist with oblivion,
spins, cutting time
into inaccessible halves.
Its hard goblets cover your heart
spilt upon the cold earth
with its poor blue sparks
flying in the voice of the rain.
