does this always happen-neruda

Photo by: Annie Leibovitz

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… Questions that insisted in the sand… Everything was empty… Inconceivably alien, it all belonged to someone else- To no one: Until your beauty and your poverty filled the autumn plentiful with gifts.
Pablo Neruda