Everyone



Perhaps I won’t be, perhaps I couldn’t,
I wasn’t, I didn’t see, I am not:
what is this?  And in what June, in what wood
did I grow until now, did I continue being born?

I didn’t grow, I didn’t grow, I kept on dying?

I repeated in the doors
the sound of the sea,
of the bells:
I asked after myself, with delight
(later with anxiety)
with a small bell, with water,
with sweetness:
I always arrived late.
I was far from my prior self
I didn’t respond to myself then,
I had gone so many times.

And I went to the next house,
to the next woman,
to all parts
to ask after myself, after you, after everyone:
everything was empty
because simply it wasn’t today
it was tomorrow.

Why search in vain
at every door where we won’t exist
because we haven’t arrived yet?

So it was that I knew
that I was exactly like you
and everyone.


Pablo Neruda