Did he write this for me?

The Weary One

The weary one, orphan of the masses, the self, the crushed one, the one made of concrete, the one without a country in crowded restaurants, she who wanted to go far away, always farther away, didn't know what to do there, whether she wanted or didn't want to leave or remain on the island, the hesitant one, the hybrid, entangled in herself, had no place here: the straight-angled stone, the infinite look of the granite prism, the circular solitude all banished her: she went somewhere else with her sorrows, she returned to the agony of her native land, to her indecisions, of winter and summer. Pablo Neruda