Chemists of south America are sick of your jokes {Neruda to Vallejo}

Chemists of south America are sick of your jokes {Neruda to Vallejo}

_______________________________

You allowed me, friend
to watch you suffer from the vantage of this stage
struggling for all, struggling to make a person of the individual.
He used to write on air on with his thumb,
paper of wind, quill of nothing, grace of water.
This serene branch of chemistry.
The branch of exploration.
The dust caught by us will be escorted by those atoms
he has left behind, wiped by the rag of new friendships,
given wings, heading for the future.

How an entire life can fit a death.
To think there is no soil
to uphold the weight of your low living,
no more world that the colour of your yoke,
between two epochs, can carry.

If the earth should freeze, if the climate
should find its way here, may two hands of the earth
seize its arm and cease its motion.
Down upon our age of early suns and ancient noise.
What children of the world mother Peru?
Lugging our bellies across the planet
with an aeroplane upon our backs.
If it falls how we will stop growing?
How our year will punish the month.
How our teeth are going to remain in sets of ten.
How our poor lamb will remain tied to the inkwell.
How we will fall down the stairway of the alphabet,
all the way to the letter where grief was born.

ETIQUETADO EN:


Deja un comentario

Su direccion de email no sera publicada

You may use these HTML tags and attributes: <a href="" title=""> <abbr title=""> <acronym title=""> <b> <blockquote cite=""> <cite> <code> <del datetime=""> <em> <i> <q cite=""> <s> <strike> <strong>

*

Este sitio usa Akismet para reducir el spam. Aprende cómo se procesan los datos de tus comentarios.