They all ask me to jump
to invigorate and to play soccer,
to run, to swim and to fly.
Very well.
They all advise me rest,
they all send me to the doctor,
looking at me a certain way.
What happens?
They all advise me to travel,
to come and to leave, to stay,
to die and not to die.
It does not matter.
They all see the difficulties
of my surprised bowels
by awful X-rayed portraits.
I do not agree.
They all sting my poetry
with relentless forks
seeking, without doubt, a fly,
I Am afraid.
I am afraid of everyone,
of the cold water, of the death.
I am like all the mortals,
unavoidable.
And for that, in these short days
I am not going to pay attention to them,
I am going to open myself up and shut myself in
with my more perfidious enemy,
Pablo Neruda.
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I wish I knew when this was written. I'd guess toward the end of his life. It seems quite honest in his fear and opinion, a little confused as to what is the course to take, and in the end, he chooses to shut himself in and away from it all, and he knows that is the worst place to be, alone with his thoughts.
A sad, emotionally difficult poem to read, but a very honest one I'd guess.
Oh and thank you to the translator MariGoes.
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