Pablo Neruda

Here you will find the Poem Finale of poet Pablo Neruda


Matilde, years or days 
sleeping, feverish, 
here or there, 
gazing off, 
twisting my spine, 
bleeding true blood, 
perhaps I awaken 
or am lost, sleeping: 
hospital beds, foreign windows, 
white uniforms of the silent walkers, 
the clumsiness of feet. 

And then, these journeys 
and my sea of renewal: 
your head on the pillow, 
your hands floating 
in the light, in my light, 
over my earth. 

It was beautiful to live 
when you lived! 

The world is bluer and of the earth 
at night, when I sleep 
enormous, within your small hands