Returning by Pablo Neruda
So many profiles of death line my face
that I cannot die,
I’m not capable of it,
they look for me and can’t find me
and I leave with what is mine,
with my poor destiny
on horseback, lost
in solitary pastures
far south in South America:
a fiery wind blows in,
the trees are bent down
from the day of their birth:
they must kiss the earth,
that smooth plain:
it comes later, the snow
of a thousand words
that never lets up.
I have returned
from where I will go,
on Friday tomorrow
I came back
with each of my bells
and I stood waiting,
searching for the meadow,
kissing bitter earth
like a bent-over shrub.
Because it is our duty
to obey winter,
to let the wind grow
within you as well,
until the snow falls,
until this day and every day are one,
the wind and the past,
the cold falls,
finally we are alone,
and finally we will be silent.
Gracias.
