by Pablo Neruda
Here it does not rest, a past
I summoned with a bell
so that things awaken
and the rings gather around me,
which have separated from fingers
obeying death:
I did not want to reconstruct
the hands or the sadnesses:
after everything,
once and for all
shall die this century of agony
that taught us to assassinate
and to die of survival.
Copyright ©:
Translated by William O'Daly
Last updated November 14, 2022