A book,
just pages
on leaves, whitened-
river washed,
dried then wettened again;
tears of words
torn from a heart-
his then mine, and mine again.
A book
of poems, written verse,
la poema-
the saddest lines of all,
but not all, no,
not all; not always.
Pages of Odes;
oh, the odes
to fruit,
to wine
and song
of the sea and mermaids;
the pages sing his songs.
A book
of heights
and stone,
he took us there-
a shovel in the sand;
of monuments
and ships
of drunken men and love
once loved,
and loved again.
Words
on silken thighs,
*******
and a red dress-
on a dark night
the stars and moon did shine.
A garden-
he planted a *****
into our hearts;
his dog,
it died
simply
loved too much-
Ai.
A book,
just a book
of pages,
of poems
by my bed-
dog-eared,
much read and loved;
his words ending
the saddest lines of all.
r ~ 8/15/14
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| Neruda
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