From my series inspired by the poetry of Pablo Neruda.
I’ve a flair for the bitterest roles.
I was never the cause of those greetings
the thunderbolt exchanged with the rose.
I never created the world, never made
watches or waves–I never expected
to find my portrait engraved in the wheat.
After losing so much in places I’ve not even been to,
I perfected my absence
with hardly a vagary lost–
only a pillar of salt crumbling away
in a cupful of wintery water.
The traveler asks himself: if he lived out
a lifetime, pushing the distance away,
does he come back to the place where his grieving began:
squander his dose of identity again,
say his goodbyes again, and go?
-Pablo Neruda 'Las Manos del Día’ / ‘The Hands of Day,’ 1968)