by PABLO NERUDA (1904-1973)
Maybe you’ll remember that razor-faced man
who slipped out from the dark like a blade
and – before we realized – knew what was there:
he saw the smoke and concluded fire.
The pallid woman with black hair
rose like a fish from the abyss,
and the two of them built up a contraption,
armed to the teeth, against love.
Man and woman, they felled mountains and gardens,
then went down to the river, they scaled the walls,
they hoisted their atrocious artillery up the hill.
Then love knew it was called love.
And when I lifted my eyes to your name,
suddenly your heart showed me my way.