Literature
Neruda's Rose
I'm leaving with a yellow rose
in hand. It comes from Chile. I have not
opened it yet. The eye
falls to the center of the sea: a pearl
solitary, lived through for six months.
I was there too - for six days -
together with six more
days made of six years. Beginning and end.
Beginning and end of warm tears
and salty. From the sea to the fields
six hours is enough for me.
From the fields back to the sea, six more months.
"Stop loading it down with all that crying.
They are not vague, they will not be vague.
They are the sunset and the dawn."
They stay with me, they stay even after...
They slide off the fire petals
rose. The Latin blood, thank God,
still breathes warm.
But the tears stay salty.
It is not the eyes of the flesh that weep.
Time left to shed its tears is weeping -
and it says to me: "Did you see her?"
I saw her... she bloomed between my hands.
