How many times, love, have I loved you without seeing you and perhaps without memory, without recognizing your gaze, without looking at you, centaur, in opposite regions, in a scorching midday: You were just the aroma of the cereal that I adore. Maybe I saw you, I guessed you as I passed by raising a glass in Angola, in the June moonlight, or you were on the waist of that guitar that I played in the dark and it looked like the sea too much. I loved you without knowing it and sought your memory. I entered empty houses with a flashlight to steal your portrait. But I already knew what it was. Suddenly while you were with me I touched you and my life stopped: before my eyes you were, reigning and queens. Like a bonfire in the forest, fire is your kingdom. (Pablo Neruda)