Sonnet VIII

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    <strong>So VIII</strong>

    If your eyes were not the color of the moon,

    of a day full [here, interrupted by the baby waking -- tinued about 26

    hours later ]

    of a day full of clay, and work, and fire,

    if even held-in you did not move in agile grace like the air,

    if you were not an amber week,

    not the yellow mo<q>9９lｉｂ?</q>ment

    when autumn climbs up through the vines;

    if you were not that bread the fragrant moon

    kneads, sprinkling its flour across the sky,

    oh, my dearest, I could not love you so!

    But when I hold you I hold everything that is --

    sand, time, the tree of the rain,

    everything is alive so tha<dfn></dfn>t I  be alive:

    with<tt>９9ｌｉｂ?t>out moving I  see it all:

    in your life I see everything that live<big></big>s.

    <strong>Pablo Neruda</strong>

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