Explore "With Quevedo, in Springtime" by Pablo Neruda on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
Everything has flowered in these fields, apple trees, hesitant blues, yellow weeds, and in green grass the poppies thrive.
The inextinguishable sky, the new air of each day, the invisible shine within, that gift of a wide and vast springtime.
But spring hasn't come to my room.
Diseases, dubious kisses, that stuck like the church's ivy to the black windows of my life and love alone is never enough, not even the wild and expansive fragrance of spring.
And, to you, what can these mean now: the orgiastic light, the evidence unfolding like a flower, the green song in the green leaves, the presence of the sky with its goblet of freshness?
External spring, do not torment me, unleashing wine and snow in my arms, corolla and battered bouquet of sorrow, just for today give me the sleep of nocturnal leaves, the night of the dead, the metals, the roots, and so many extinguished springtimes that awaken to life every spring.