Since we are ... the poem dedicated to Olga Margarita. A caress for the soul, a great poet.
happens I am sick of being human.
happen to enter tailor shops and movie houses withered, impenetrable
like a felt swan navigating in a water source and ash.
The smell of barbershops makes me mourn aloud.
just want a break from stones or wool,
just want not to see establishments or gardens,
no goods, no spectacles, no elevators.
happens I am sick of my feet and my uñasy my hair and my shadow.
happens I am sick of being human. However
would be delicious to scare a notary with a cut lily,
kill a nun with a blow on the ear.
would be great to walk down the street with a green knife
and screaming until they die of cold I do not want to remain
root in the shadows, vacillating,
shivering with sleep, down,
into the moist guts of the earth,
absorbing and thinking, eating every day.
I do not want so much misery.
not want to go root and a tomb,
alone underground, a warehouse with corpses, half frozen, dying of grief.
So on Monday burns like oil
when he sees me coming with my convict face,
and howls on its way like a wounded wheel, and gives
hot blooded steps into the night. And I pushed
into certain corners,
into some moist houses, into hospitals where the bones fly out the window,
into shoe stores smell of vinegar,
streets hideous as cracks. There
sulfur-colored birds
and hideous intestines hanging over the doors of the houses that I hate, there
teeth forgotten in a coffeepot, there
espejosque vergüenzay should have cried horror, there are umbrellas
everywhere
and poisons, and navels.
I stroll along serenely, with eyes, with shoes, with fury, with forgetfulness,
step, through office buildings and orthopedic shops,
and courtyards with washing hanging on a wire:
underwear, towels and shirts from which slow dirty tears.
Pablo Neruda
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