ForumGarden

I first came across this 25 years ago and I think it says so much about the human condition:

(and as I'm rubbish at cutting and pasting, I have to type it all out!)



Of so many men that I am, that we are,

I can't find a single one:

I lose them under my clothing,

they've moved to another town.

When everything seems to be set

to show off my erudition,

the fool I always keep hidden

takes over all that I say.

I am paralysed and silenced

among those who are distinguished

and when I seek the fearless within me

a coward I do not know

rushes to cover my skeleton

with a thousand fine precautions.

When a home I care for burns

I call forth the firefighter

but the arsonist breaks through

and he is I. There is no fixing me.

What must I do to select me?

How can I become myself?

All the books I read

celebrate dazzling heroes

always certain of themselves:

how I envy them.

In cowboy films

I am jealous of the cowboy,

and even admire the horse

But when I seek the daredevil

I find the lazy old man,

and so I do not know who I am,

or how many I am or we are.

I would like to ring a bell

and summon the real me

because if I need myself

I should not be disappearing.

While I write I am absent

and when I return I've gone:

One day I will see if these things

happen to other people,

if they are as many as I am,

if they resemble themselves,

and when I find out

I will know all things so well

that to explain all my problems

I will speak about geography

Pablo Neruda

translated by F. Pajares

oh wow. Thank you for sharing sweety