Pablo Neruda (12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973 / Parral / Chile)
Your whole body has
a fullness or a gentleness destined for me.
When I move my hand up
I find in each place a dove
that was seeking me, as
if they had, love, made you of clay
for my own potter's hands.
Your knees, your breasts,
are missing parts of me like the hollow
of a thirsty earth
from which they broke off
we are complete like a single river,
like a single grain of sand.
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