сонета XXV.

Before I loved you, love, nothing was my own: 
I wavered through the streets, among 
Objects: 
Nothing mattered or had a name: 
The world was made of air, which waited. 

I knew rooms full of ashes, 
Tunnels where the moon lived, 
Rough warehouses that growled 'get lost', 
Questions that insisted in the sand. 

Everything was empty, dead, mute, 
Fallen abandoned, and decayed: 
Inconceivably alien, it all 

Belonged to someone else - to no one: 
Till your beauty and your poverty 
Filled the autumn plentiful with gifts.
-Pablo Neruda.