Monday, December 28, 2015

Don't Ask

(This is a re-translation of a poem by Pablo Neruda)

Don't Ask  

My heart is heavy
knowing so many things
as if carrying a sack of dark stones,
or as if rain was falling ceaslessly
in my memory.

Don't ask me about it
I know nothing about it
I don't know what happened.
Nobody else knew either, so,
I went on in a fog, 
thinking that nothing had happened
looking for fruit in the streets
thoughts in the wastelands...

and here's what I know:
everyone was right, and I've
been asleep for so long.

So, I add to to my heart
not just stones but shadow
not just shadow but blood.

That's how it is, boy,
and also how it is not.
Because, in spite of it all,
I'm alive and my health is excellent.
I grow my soul and my nails,
walk through barbershops,
come and go through frontiers,
take my stance.

But, if you want to know more,
and if you hear sadness barking
close to my house, it is a lie:
only love is real. Sadness 
is time wasted.

So, of what I remember,
and what I don't, of what I know,
and what I knew, and what I lost 
on the road, among so many things lost,
of the dead that did not hear me, and,
perhaps wanted to see me, just touch me,
here, and you will see how my heart trembles,
a sack of dark stones


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