I am not jealous.
If you arrived
with a man on your back,
or a hundred men
hanging in the rigging of your hair,
or a thousand men
sleeping on the soft mound of your belly,
if you were a river
filled with drowned men
met by the furious sea
foaming at its mouth,
by eternal weather –
if you arrived with them all
where I wait for you,
I would not be jealous.
We will always be alone.
We will always be, you and I,
alone on this earth
to begin life.
After Neruda
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