my poem about about hands from pablo neruda

Your hands

By pablo neruda"

When your hands leap

towards mine, love,

what do they bring me in flight?

Why did they stop

at my lips, so suddenly,

why do I know them,

as if once before,

I have touched them,

as if, before being,

they travelled

my forehead, my waist?

Their smoothness came

winging through time,

over the sea and the smoke,

over the Spring,

and when you laid

your hands on my chest

I knew those wings

of the gold doves,

I knew that clay,

and that colour of grain.

The years of my life

have been roadways of searching,

a climbing of stairs,

a crossing of reefs.

Trains hurled me onwards

waters recalled me,

on the surface of grapes

it seemed that I touched you.

Wood, of a sudden,

made contact with you,

the almond-tree summoned

your hidden smoothness,

until both your hands

closed on my chest,

like a pair of wings

ending their flight.