Forgotten Wings

—Photo by Hubble Telescope

?POETRY
—Pablo Neruda (1904-1973)

And it was at that age ... Poetry arrived

in search of me. I don't know, I don't know where

it came from, from winter or a river.

I don't know how or when,

no, they were not voices, they were not

words, nor silence,

but from a street I was summoned,

from the branches of night,

abruptly from others,

among violent fires

or returning alone,

there I was without a face

and it touched me.

I did not know what to say, my mouth


had no way


with names,


my eyes were blind,


and something started in my soul,


fever or forgotten wings,


and I made my own way,


deciphering


that fire,


and I wrote the first faint line,


faint, without substance, pure


nonsense,


pure wisdom


of someone who knows nothing,


and suddenly I saw


the heavens


unfastened


and open,


planets,


palpitating plantations,


shadow perforated,


riddled


with arrows, fire and flowers,


the winding night, the universe. 

And I, infinitesimal being,


drunk with the great starry


void,


likeness, image of


mystery,


for myself a pure part 

of the abyss,


I wheeled with the stars,


my heart broke loose on the wind.



(Translated from the Spanish by Alastair Reid) 


________________________

—Medusa