Pablo Neruda’s ⁍ Sonnet 84

Once again, Love, the day’s net extinguishes
work, wheels, fires, snores, good-byes,
and we surrender to the night the waving wheat
that noon took from the light and from the earth.

Only the moon, in the center of its white page,
supports the columns of the heaven’s harbor,
the bedroom takes on the slowness of gold,
and your hands move, beginning to prepare the night.

O love, O night, O dome surrounded by a river
of impenetrable waters in the shadows of a sky
that lights and sinks its stormy grapes:

till we are only one dark space,
a chalice filling with celestial ashes,
a drop in the pulse of a long slow river.