neruda sixty-two.

hard is this love of me and of us.
we wanted to love, so we loved,
and on a bed of pain we two lay,
rendering ourselves wounded,

wanting for our bread, the kiss,
secretly and fully consumed. it was all
we would eat, simply and eternally
till our window was broken with hate,

hurled through by the poor who hungered,
having neither this nor an other love,
an empty chair in an abandoned room.

we waited as their hostility retreated
behind those tired eyes of ash,
as the sun returned into the earth.