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Ode to a Naked Beauty by Pablo Neruda

With chaste heart, and pure
eyes
I celebrate you, my beauty,
restraining my blood
so that the line
surges and follows
your contour,
and you bed yourself in my verse,
as in woodland, or wave-spume:
earth’s perfume,
sea’s music.

Nakedly beautiful,
whether it is your feet, arching
at a primal touch
of sound or breeze,
or your ears,
tiny spiral shells
from the splendor of America’s oceans.
Your breasts also,
of equal fullness, overflowing
with the living light
and, yes,
winged
your eyelids of silken corn
that disclose
or enclose
the deep twin landscapes of your eyes.

The line of your back
separating you
falls away into paler regions
then surges
to the smooth hemispheres
of an apple,
and goes splitting
your loveliness
into two pillars
of burnt gold, pure alabaster,
to be lost in the twin clusters of your feet,
from which, once more, lifts and takes fire
the double tree of your symmetry:
flower of fire, open circle of candles,
swollen fruit raised
over the meeting of earth and ocean.

Your body – from what substances
agate, quartz, ears of wheat,
did it flow, was it gathered,
rising like bread
in the warmth,
and signaling hills
silvered,
valleys of a single petal, sweetness
of velvet depth,
until the pure, fine, form of woman
thickened
and rested there?

It is not so much light that falls
over the world
extended by your body
its suffocating snow,
as brightness, pouring itself out of you,
as if you were
burning inside.

Under your skin the moon is alive.

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It's not about knowing you when we were there, wandering, in gardens of youthful freedom. What matters is that I've known you, as you are. It's not about seeing you transformed in full splendor palpably radiant and  blinding mortal  eyes. What matters is that I’ve seen you, as you are. It’s not about hearing you, angelic rhythm of imagined voices  wallowing in bitter-sweet laughter. What matters is that I’ve heard you, as you are. It is not about touching you in the deepest  recesses of your uncharted nakedness, utterly lost  in the celebration  of your beauty and passion. What matters most is that I’ve touched you, as you are. It is not about feeling your stormy thoughts and calm contemplations though these are far constellations reached only by stellar signals. What matters most is that I’ve felt you, as you are. ‘Tis not about loving you, sweet rose-petal of dreams,