Sunday, November 30, 2008


The Wars

Come closer, hat in the dust,
burnt shoe-leather, doll,
posthumous mountain of eyeglasses;
better still, rise from your
ashes—man, women, city—
touch this disconsolate page
riddled with sorrow,

Black snow, waste land
of Siberian injustice,
shabby remains of my anguish, come close
as the chains fall away
and over the just the inexplicable
darkness descends in a pillar of clouds.

Toy of the Asians, doll
scorched by aerial murderers,
show your black eyes
far from the waist of the child
who fled when you burst into flame
as every wall blazed
and death held the rice-fields.

All striped objects
heaped by the murdered
at a time when my life
was shamed by the dying
of the other who never survived.

Seeing wash spread
to dry in a dazzle of sunlight,
I remember legs lost to them,
arms that never will fill them,
the vandalized sex,
the heart’s mutilation.

A century’s shoe-stores
crammed with the shoes of the world
while feet were dismembered
by frostbite or fire
or gas or the axe!

At time I have cringed
under the burdens I bear,
the renewed castigations:
I’ve paid dearly to learn how to die
each man’s incomprehensible death
and accept the remorse
of the gratuitous criminal:
after the cruelties, after
the vengeance that followed, no one
is innocent, it may be:
we all go on living
after the others are murdered:
knowing, perhaps, we have stolen the lives
of the best of our brothers.

Pablo Neruda (1925-1970)


ပ်ဴႏုိင္ငံ said...

ေ၀မွ်တဲ့အတြက္ ေက်းဇူးပါ ကိုေဆာင္းေရ။

ေခါင္ေခါင္ said...

ေသခ်ာ နားမလည္ေပမယ့္.. ဖတ္သြားပါတယ္ ကိုေဆာင္း... ေက်းဇူး..