Now, now too, little one, you bring me honeysuckle,
And even your breasts smell of it.
While the sad wind goes slaughtering butterflies.
I love you, and my happiness bites the plum of your mouth.
How you must have suffered getting accustomed to me,
My savage, solitary soul,
My name that sends them all running.
So many times we have seen the morning star burn,
Kissing our eyes,
And over our heads the gray light unwind in turning fans.
My words rained over you, stroking you.
A long time I have loved the sunned mother-of-pearl of your body.
I go so far as to think that you own the universe.
I will bring you happy flowers from the mountains,
Bluebells, dark hazels, and rustic baskets of kisses.
I want to do with you what spring does with the cherry trees.
— “Every Day You Play” by Pablo Neruda
