I know that the spades are the swards of a soldier I know that the clubs are weapons of war I know that diamonds mean money for this art But that's not the shape of my heart!
Twenty Love Poems: And a Song of Despair (Pablo Neruda)
Tonight I Can Write Tonight I can write the saddest lines. Write, for example, "The night is starry and the stars are blue and shiver in the distance." The night wind revolves in the sky and sings. Tonight I can write the saddest lines. I loved her, and sometimes she loved me too. Through nights like this one I held her in my arms. I kissed her again and again under the endless sky. She loved me, sometimes I loved her too. How could one not have loved her great still eyes. Tonight I can write the saddest lines. To think that I do not have her. To feel that I have lost her. To hear the immense night, still more immense without her. And the verse falls to the soul like dew to the pasture. What does it matter that my love could not keep her. The night is starry and she is not with me. This is all. In the distance someone is singing. In the distance. My soul is not satisfied that it has lost her. My sight tries to find her as though to bring her closer. My heart looks for her, and she is not with me. The same night whitening the same trees. We, of that time, are no longer the same. I no longer love her, that's certain, but how I loved her. My voice tried to find the wind to touch her hearing. Another's. She will be another's. As she was before my kisses. Her voice, her bright body. Her infinite eyes. I no longer love her, that's certain, but maybe I love her. Love is so short, forgetting is so long. Because through nights like this one I held her in my arms my soul is not satisfied that it has lost her. Though this be the last pain that she makes me suffer and these the last verses that I write for her.
That the world was and it will be filth, I already know... In the year five hundred and six and in the year two thousand too! There always have been thieves, traitors and victims of fraud, happy and bitter people, valuables and imitations But, that the twentieth century is a display of insolent malice, nobody can deny it anymore. We lived sunk in a fuzz and in the same mud all well-worn... Today it happens it is the same to be decent or a traitor! To be an ignorant, a genius, a pickpocket, a generous person or a swindler! All is the same! Nothing is better! They are the same, an idiot ass and a great professor! There are no failing grades or merit valuations, the immoral have caught up with us. If one lives in a pose and another, in his ambition, steals, it's the same if it's a priest, a mattress maker, a king of clubs, a cad or a tramp. What a lack of respect, what a way to run over reason! Anybody is a gentleman! Anybody is a thief! Mixed with Stavinsky, you have Don Bosco and La Mignon don Chicho and Napoleon, Carnera and San Martin. Like in the disrespectful window of the bazaars, life is mixed up, and wounded by a sword without rivets you can see a Bible crying next to a water heater. Twentieth century, bazaar problematic and feverish! If you don't cry you don't get fed and if you don't steal you're a stupid. Go ahead! Keep it up! That there, in hell we're gonna reunite. Don't think anymore, move out of the way. Nobody seems to care if you were born honest. It's the same the one who works, day and night like an ox, than the one who lives from the others, than the one that kills or heals or than the one who lives outside the law.
English
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