A vivid picture of a quiet, enduring longing? It seems as though one house itself is experiencing a heartache, with every window waiting and every creak and sigh serving as silent witnesses to the emptiness left behind. The windows, like the soul, remain open, hopeful yet aching, watching for a glimpse of the one they miss.
I read somewhere how Pablo Neruda’s poetry often blurs the line between the self and the surroundings, using the natural and everyday world to reflect the depth of love, desire, separation and unfulfilled yearning. He finds a way to make these feelings feel universal and grounded, yet deeply personal and profound. I wonder if his writing goes far beyond this emotional spectrum.
Talking about the empty house, the void feels profoundly painful. In the midst of it, it’s difficult to see anything but the empty ache. Though it may seem unlikely now, the void transforms over time, finding a substitute to feel whole. But sometimes the void isn’t filled exactly but rather, it becomes a part of who you are, reshaping itself as a person grows. And maybe, just maybe, these empty spaces can turn into places where resilience grows, where love slowly finds its way back— even if it’s in a different form. People make each other feel something and it’s okay if it wasn’t love, it’s okay if they were too scared to call it love.
“Matilde, where are you? I only just noticed
behind my necktie and above my heart,
a certain melancholy between my ribs:
It was that, all of a sudden, you are gone.
I needed the light of your energy so much.
I looked all around me, devouring hope,
and saw that the space without you is a house,
with nothing left in it but tragic windows.
In the pure silence now, the roof is listening
to the falling of ancient leafless rain,
to feathers, to what the night has imprisoned.
And so I still wait, like a lonely house,
for you to see me and inhabit me again.
Until that time, my windows ache.”
— Pablo Neruda, Sonnet 65
Translated from Spanish by Paul Weinfield
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