Your Hands

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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.

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