Sunday, February 27, 2011

An Indirect Anguish

"I'm gonna lean up against you; you just lean right back against me. This way, we don't have to sleep with our heads in the mud."

Ars Poetica

Between shadow and space, between trimmings and damsels, 
endowed with a singular heart and sorrowful dreams,
precipitously pallid, withered in the brow
and with a furious widower's mourning for each day of life,
ah, for each invisible water that I drink somnolently
and from every sound that I welcome trembling,
I have the same absent thirst and the same cold fever,
a nascent ear, an indirect anguish, 
as if thieves or ghosts were coming,
and in a shell of fixed and profound expanse, 
like a humiliated waiter, like a slightly raucous bell,
like an old mirror, like the smell of a solitary house
where the guests come in at night wildly drunk,
and there is a smell of clothes thrown on the floor, and an absence of flowers - 
possibly in another even less melancholy way - 
but the truth is that suddenly the wind that lashes my chest,
the nights of infinite substance fallen in my bedroom, 
the noise of a day that burns with sacrifice, 
ask me mournfully what prophecy there is in me, 
and there is a swarm of objects that call without being answered,
and a ceaseless movement, and a bewildered man.

- Pablo Neruda 

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