If I hated you, I'd give my hatred
to you in words, round and sure,
but I love you, and my love finds
all speech unreliable, obscure.
You'd like to hear it shouted out,
but coming from so deep, its flood
of fire fails and falters
before it reaches my breast, my throat.
A millpond full to overflowing,
I seem to you a spring gone dry,
and suffer from my wretched silence
worse than if I had to die.
by Gabriela Mistral
Translated by Ursula K. Le Guin