From the Spanish of Pablo Neruda, translated by Robert Arnquist and Jeff Rogers.
Poetry goes out of things
Or is it that my life cannot condense?
Yesterday, while watching the last sunset
I was a spot of mold among the ruins.
The cities - soot and vengeance -
The gray filth of the suburbs,
The office building arching its back,
The boss with the clouded eyes.
The blood of the tree in the hills,
Blood on the streets and in the plazas,
The sorrow of broken hearts,
Father of exhaustion and tears.
The river embraces the outskirt like a
Frozen hand groping in the darkness;
Even the stars are ashamed
To show themselves in the waters.
And the houses that hide their desires
Behind lit windows,
While outside, the wind
Carries a little mud to each rose.
