Skip to main content

If You Forget Me by Pablo Neruda




If You Forget Me

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.

Pablo Neruda

(July 12, 1904-September 23, 1973)

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

You Were Perfectly Fine by Dorothy Parker

"Martini" kristin fouquet


This is my favorite hangover story. A raise of the glass to the inimitable Dorothy Parker.


You Were Perfectly Fine

by

Dorothy Parker

The pale young man eased himself carefully into the low chair, and rolled his head to the side, so that the cool chintz comforted his cheek and temple.“Oh, dear,” he said.”Oh, dear, oh, dear, oh, dear. Oh.”The clear-eyed girl, sitting light and erect on the couch, smiled brightly at him.“Not feeling so well today?” she said.“Oh, I’m great,” he said.”Corking, I am. Know what time I got up? Four o’clock this afternoon, sharp. I kept trying to make it, and every time I took my head off the pillow, it would roll under the bed. This isn’t my head I’ve got on now. I think this is something that used to belong to Walt Whitman. Oh, dear, oh, dear, oh, dear.”“Do you think maybe a drink would make you feel better?” she said.“The hair of the mastiff that bit me?” he said.”Oh, no, thank you. Please never speak of anything like…

"Propped Up"

Propped Up
first published in Pindeldyboz

Christmas Muzak was piped through to every store in the shopping mall. Giant red velvet bows adorned reproduction Victorian gaslights. Yards of glittered cotton pretended to be snow. A Santa rang a brass bell.
“If you ask me, it ain’t natural,” Ted muttered.
Sunny was more optimistic. In her blissful eighteen years, she had not yet had an encounter with Father Cynicism. “It’s like a miracle.”
Before he could counter her statement, she flicked on the vacuum cleaner and got to work on the big carpeted cubes.
Ted yelled, “Passive aggressive,” but nobody heard. He adjusted his belt, then fogged the camera lens with his breath and wiped it.
When Sunny had finished with the prop cubes, she turned off the vacuum cleaner.
“Freakin’ fertility drugs,” he called out too soon, proving he had been saving it until the din subsided.
“She sounded so happy on the phone that we could take their picture.” Sunny pulled down the snowy pastoral scene backdrop. “She said sh…

Paintings by Dimitri Fouquet

"Rizzum & Blues"



"Ravi Shankar"



"Opium Dream"



"Marie Laveau"



"Baron Samedi"



Dimitri Fouquet

(1943-2002)

New Orleans artist