Tonight I can write the saddest lines.
To think that I do not have her.
To feel that I have lost her. 

To hear the immense night,
still more immense without her.
And the verse falls to the soul
like dew to the pasture. 

This is all.
In the distance someone is singing.
In the distance. 
My soul is not satisfied that it has lost her. 

My sight tries to find her
as though to bring her closer. 
My heart looks for her,
and she is not with me. 

Another's. She will be another's.
As she was before my kisses. 
Her voice, her bright body.
Her infinite eyes. 

I no longer love her, that's certain,
but maybe I love her. 
Love is so short, forgetting is so long. 

Because through nights like this one
I held her in my arms
my soul is not satisfied
that it has lost her. 

Though this may be the last pain
that she makes me suffer
and these the last verses
that I write for her. 

Pablo Neruda,
Tonight I Can Write, 
Twenty Love Poems And A Song of Despair/
Veinte Poemas De Amor Y Una Canción Desesperada 
(1923 - 1924)

𝙴𝚗𝚍 𝚘𝚏 𝙿𝚊𝚛𝚝 𝟷