Sunday, February 18, 2007

from Neruda's Book of Questions

Why does the hat of night
fly so full of holes?

Do uncried tears wait in small lakes?
Or are they invisible rivers who run to sadness?


Where is the child I was,
still inside me or gone?

Why did we spend so much time
growing up only to separate?

2 comments:

Kent said...

Where is the child I was,
still inside me or gone?

Still there, but obscured by the man I am and the child I am becoming by the grace of God.

heidi said...

i owned that book once, but gifted it away to a young man who lived the questions more than i. it was in both spanish and english. i am happy that you would be able to read both.