Tuesday, April 9, 2013

Heights of Macchu Picchu

Arise to birth with me, my brother.
Give me your hand out of the depths sown by your sorrows.
tiller of fields, weaver, reticent shepherd,
groom of totemic guanacos,
mason high on your treacherous scaffolding,
iceman of Andean tears,
jeweler with crushed fingers,
farmer anxious among his seedlings,
potter wasted among his clays–
bring to the cup of this new life
your ancient buried sorrows.
Show me your blood and your furrow;
say to me: here I was scourged
because a gem was dull or because the earth
failed to give up in time its tithe of corn or stone.
Point out to me the rock on which you stumbled,
the wood they used to crucify your body.

Pablo Neruda


Everyone asks me to skip, to tone up and to play football, to run,
to swim and to fly. Fine.

Everyone counsels me to rest, every-
one sends me doctors, looking at me a certain way. What is

Everyone counsels me to travel, to enter and to
leave, not to travel, to drop dead and not to die.
It doesn't

Everyone sees the difficulties of my insides surprised
by terrible x-rays. I do not agree.

Everyone picks at my
poetry with inconquerable forks looking, undoubtedly, for a
fly. I am afraid.

I am afraid of everyone, of cold water, of
death. I am like all mortals, undelayable.

Therefore in
these short days I am not going to pay any attention to them,
I am going to open myself up and close myself in with my most
perfidious enemy, Pablo Neruda.

Pablo Neruda