Poem
after Neruda Tonight, I write sadly. Write, For example : Little grasshopper, Shelter from the midnight frost In the scarecrow's sleeve, advising myself.
The night wind throbs in the sky.
Tonight, I write so wearily. Write, For example : I wanted her, And at times it was me she wanted. Write, The rain we watched last fall Has it fallen this year too?
She wanted me, and at times it was her I wanted. Yet, it is gone, that want.
What's more, I do not care.
It is more terrible than my despair Over losing her. The night, alWays vast, Grows enormous without her, and My comforter's tongue talking about her Is a red fox barred by ivory, well, Does it matter I loved too weak to keep her? The night ignores such trivial disputes. She is not here. That's all.
Far off someone is singing. , And if to bring her back I look, And I run to the end of the road, And I shout, shout her name, My voice comes back : the same, but weaker.
This night is the same night; it whitens The same trees:'casts similar shadows;
It is as dark, as long, as deep, and as endurable As any other night. It is true : I do not want her.
But perhaps I want her . . .
Love's not so brief that I forget her, So. Nevertheless, I shall forget her, and, Alas, as if by accident
A day will pass in which I shall not think about her even once. And this, the last line I shall write her. cluttsTorilCit LOGUB
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