Sunday, June 18, 2017

America, I Do Not Call Your Name without Hope

By Pablo Neruda

When I hold the sword against the heart,
when I live with the faulty roof in the soul,
when one of your new days
pierces me coming through the windows,
I am and I stand in the light that produces me,
I live in the darkness which makes me what I am,
I sleep and awake in your fundamental sunrise:
as mild as the grapes, and as terrible,
carrier of sugar and the whip,
soaked in the sperm of your species,
nursed on the blood of your inheritance.

Translated by Robert Bly



2 comments:

  1. This poem is actually by Pablo Neruda. It was translated by Robert Bly.

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    Replies
    1. Oh my! Good catch. Thanks. Will repost this poem corrected.

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