The Hurt Pablo Neruda

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I have hurt you, my dear,
I have torn your soul.

Understand me.
Everyone knows who I am,
but that "I am"
is besides a man
for you.

In you I waver, fall
and rise up burning.
You among all beings
have the right
to see me weak.
And your little hand
of bread and guitar
must touch my breast
when it goes off to fight.

That's why I seek in you the firm stone.
Harsh hands I sink in your blood
seeking your firmness
and the depth that I need,
and if I find
only your metallic laughter, if I find
nothing on which to support my harsh steps
adored one, accept
my sadness and my anger,
my enemy hands
destroying you a little
so that you may rise from the clay
refashioned for my struggles.