by Pablo Neruda （Translated by Clark Zlotchew and

by Pablo Neruda （Translated by Clark Zlotchew and Dennis Maloney）
     In these lonely regions I have been powerful
     in the same way as a cheerful tool
     or like untrammeled grass which lets loose its seed
     or like a dog rolling around in the dew.
     Matilde， time will pass wearing out and burning
     another skin， other fingernails， other eyes， and then
     the algae that lashed our wild rocks，
     the waves that unceasingly construct their own whiteness，
     all will be firm without us，
     all will be ready for the new days，
     which will not know our destiny.
     What do we leave here but the lost cry
     of the seabird， in the sand of winter， in the gusts of wind
     that cut our faces and kept us
     erect in the light of purity，
     as in the heart of an illustrious star？
     What do we leave， living like a nest
     of surly birds， alive， among the thickets
     or static， perched on the frigid cliffs？
     So then， if living was nothing more than anticipating
     the earth， this soil and its harshness，
     deliver me， my love， from not doing my duty， and help me
     return to my place beneath the hungry earth.
     We asked the ocean for its rose，
     its open star， its bitter contact，
     and to the overburdened， to the fellow human being， to the wounded
     we gave the freedom gathered in the wind.
     It's late now. Perhaps
     it was only a long day the color of honey and blue，
     perhaps only a night， like the eyelid
     of a grave look that encompassed
     the measure of the sea that surrounded us，
     and in this territory we found only a kiss，
     only ungraspable love that will remain here
     wandering among the sea foam and roots.