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Sonnet LXXXI by Pablo Neruda​

​

And now you're mine. Rest with your dream in my dream.​

Love and pain and work should all sleep, now.​

The night turns on its invisible wheels,​

and you are pure beside me as a sleeping ember.​


No one else, Love, will sleep in my dreams. You will go,​

we will go together, over the waters of time.​

No one else will travel through the shadows with me,​

only you, evergreen, ever sun, ever moon.​


Your hands have already opened their delicate fists​

and let their soft drifting signs drop away;​

your eyes closed like two gray wings, and I move​


after, following the folding water you carry, that carries​

me away. The night, the world, the wind spin out their destiny.​

Without you, I am your dream, only that, and that is all.​

 
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If You Forget Me by Pablo Neruda​


I want you to know
one thing.

You know how this is:
if I look
at the crystal moon, at the red branch
of the slow autumn at my window,
if I touch
near the fire
the impalpable ash
or the wrinkled body of the log,
everything carries me to you,
as if everything that exists,
aromas, light, metals,
were little boats
that sail
toward those isles of yours that wait for me.

Well, now,
if little by little you stop loving me
I shall stop loving you little by little.

If suddenly
you forget me
do not look for me,
for I shall already have forgotten you.

If you think it long and mad,
the wind of banners
that passes through my life,
and you decide
to leave me at the shore
of the heart where I have roots,
remember
that on that day,
at that hour,
I shall lift my arms
and my roots will set off
to seek another land.

But
if each day,
each hour,
you feel that you are destined for me
with implacable sweetness,
if each day a flower
climbs up to your lips to seek me,
ah my love, ah my own,
in me all that fire is repeated,
in me nothing is extinguished or forgotten,
my love feeds on your love, beloved,
and as long as you live it will be in your arms
without leaving mine.
 
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"Shakespeare venne bandito dai teatri tedeschi, Mozart e Wagner da quelli francesi ed inglesi...bisognava anche dal fronte interno insozzare e vilipendere i grandi morti dell'avversario, che da secoli riposavano nelle loro tombe. Il perturbamento degli intelletti divenne sempre più assurdo...Non vi fu né una città né un gruppo che riuscisse a sottrarsi a quell’isterismo dell’odio...l'ancora intatta credulità dei popoli nella unilaterale giustizia della propria causa costituì il più grande pericolo. A poco a poco in quelle prime settimane del 1914 diventò impossibile scambiare una parola ragionevole con qualcuno. Anche i più pacifici e bonari erano presi dall’ebbrezza del sangue...Amici coi quali non avevo avuto mai dissensi, mi accusavano apertamente di non essere più austriaco." - Stefan Zweig, Il mondo di ieri. Ricordi di un europeo, 1942
 
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