Maybe nothingness is to be without your presence,
without you moving, slicing the noon
like a blue flower, without you walking
later through the fog and the cobbles,
without the light you carry in your hand,
golden, which maybe others will not see,
which maybe no one knew was growing
like the red beginnings of a rose.
In short, without your presence: without your coming
suddenly, incitingly, to know my life,
gust of a rosebush, wheat of wind:
since then I am because you are,
since then you are, I am, we are,
and through love I will be, you will be, we’ll be.
Pablo Neruda
this is one of my absolute favorite poems—and this is my favorite translation of it. I find the others to be entirely unsatisfying and I had a lot of trouble finding this one online…don’t have my Neruda books with me here.
(via berlingirl)
(via guerrillamamamedicine)
