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Pablo Neruda

(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973 / Parral / Chile)

Sonnet XXV


Before I loved you, love, nothing was my own:
I wavered through the streets, among
Objects:
Nothing mattered or had a name:
The world was made of air, which waited.

I knew rooms full of ashes,
Tunnels where the moon lived,
Rough warehouses that growled 'get lost',
Questions that insisted in the sand.

Everything was empty, dead, mute,
Fallen abandoned, and decayed:
Inconceivably alien, it all

Belonged to someone else - to no one:
Till your beauty and your poverty
Filled the autumn plentiful with gifts.

Submitted: Saturday, April 05, 2003
Edited: Friday, May 16, 2008

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  • Freshman - 1,268 Points john tiong chunghoo (7/4/2006 7:57:00 AM)

    your genius shines through in this poem. you use so many apt and effective examples to let us feel your pain and joy for a love.; (Report) Reply

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