I love you at ten in the morning, at eleven, at twelve noon. I love you with my whole soul and my whole body, sometimes, on rainy afternoon. But at two in the afternoon, or at three, when I start to think about the two of us, and you thinking about dinner or the day’s work, or the amusements you don’t have, I start to hate you with a dull hatred, with half of the hatred that I reserve for myself.
Then I go back to loving you, when we go to bed and I feel that you are made for me, that in some way your knee and your belly are telling me that, that my hands are assuring me of that, and that there is nowhere I can come to or go to that is better than your body. The whole of you comes to meet me and for a moment we both disappear, we put ourselves into the mouth of God, until I tell you that I am hungry or sleepy.
Every day I love you and hate you irreparable. And there are days, besides, there are hours, in which I don’t know you, in which you are as strange to me as somebody else’s wife. Men worry me, I worry about myself, my troubles bewilder me. Probably there is a long time when I don’t think about you at all. So you see. Who could love you less than I do, my love?
Diario semanario y poemas en prosa (1961)
Translated by W.S. Merwin: 1 2
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