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Pablo Neruda's Love Sonnet 98: A Translation

98
Y esta palabra, este papel escrito
por las mil manos de una sola mano,
no queda en ti, no sirve para sueños,
cae a la tierra: allí se continúa.

No importa que la luz o la alabanza
se derramen y salgan de la copa
si fueron un tenaz temblor del vino,
si se tiñó tu boca de amaranto.

No quiere más la sílaba tardía,
lo que trae y retrae el arrecife
de mis recuerdos, la irritada espuma,

no quiere más sino escribir tu nombre.
Y aunque lo calle mi sombrío amor
más tarde lo dirá la primavera.

98
And this word, this paper written
by the thousand hands of a single hand,
does not stay within you, does little for dreams.
It falls to the earth, there to move along.

No matter that light or praise
spills from the cup, leaving it,
as long as they were a tenacious trembling of wine,
or your mouth were amaranth-stained.

This word wants no more the slow deliberation of the syllable
or what the reef of my recollection
brings and brings again, the stirred up foam.

It wants no more than to write your name.
And though hushed by my shadowing love,
it will later be spoken by spring.

Translation: Terence Clarke