the fist and the thorn, by neruda

it's been a while since i posted a neruda favorite...

it is not about forgiving:
the forgiven does not forgive,
nor is it about giving
because he who receives
remembers your kindness as a wound.

on what did it feed,
i ask you, your joy?
where did your eyes emerge
if they didn't poke them into you?
what makes one smile
and the wind dance
and a touch last
and on what does your song subsist?
inside the fist the thorn
wounds you to defend you
and the stone weighs heavy in your hand
or the revolver in your insomnia.

so, then, you do not kill anyone
when everyone is killing you
as though you had provisions
for the life they kill,
because the weapons are heavy
or the words are blue,
or because you must not descend
when you refused to ascend,
or because they do not exist, they tell you,
those who stomp on your head
or because those who proliferate
will leave to proliferate
or because you hide your pride
like a dragon of seven souls
or because if you are guilty
it's guilty of having been born, of growing,
of buying grapes at the store,
of giving up and of arriving.

for these myriad reasons
--or simply from sadness--
you coil up the evil they inflicted on you,
you gather up the stones of the damage done,
and you leave whistling and whistling
in the morning and across the sand.