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by Pablo Neruda
When your hands go out, love, toward mine, what do they bring me flying? Why did they stop at my mouth, suddenly, why do I recognize them as if then, before, I had touched them, as if before they existed they had passed over my forehead, my waist?
Their softness came flying over time, over the sea, over the smoke, over the spring, and when you placed your hands on my chest, I recognized those golden dove wings, I recognized that clay and that color of wheat.
All the years of my life I walked around looking for them. I went up the stairs, I crossed the roads, trains carried me, waters brought me, and in the skin of the grapes I thought I touched you. The wood suddenly brought me your touch, the almond announced to me your secret softness, until your hands closed on my chest and there like two wings they ended their journey.