It such a beautiful poem and I would love to share it. Very well written, of course. The figurative language is so awesome! xD
Originally, this poem is Spanish, but has been translated to English.
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We Are Many
Of the many men whom I am, whom we are,
I cannot settle on a single one.
They are lost to me under the cover of clothing.
They have departed for another city.
When everything seems to be set
to show me off as a man of intelligence,
the fool I keep concealed in my person
takes over my talk and occupies my mouth.
On other occasions, I am dozing in the midst
of people of some distinction,
and when I summon my courageous self,
a coward completely unknown to me
swaddles my poor skeleton
in a thousand tiny reservations.
When a stately home bursts into flames,
instead of the fireman I summon,
an arsonist bursts on the scene,
and he is I. There is nothing I can do.
What must I do to single out myself?
How can I put myself together?
All the books I read
Lionize dazzling hero figures,
always brimming with self-assurance.
I die with envy of them;
and, in films where bullets fly on the wind,
I am left in envy of the cowboys,
left admiring even the horses.
But when I call upon my dashing being,
out comes the same old lazy self,
and so I never know just who I am,
nor how many I am, nor who we will be being.
I sould like to be able to touch a bell
and call up my real self, the truly me,
because if I really need my proper self,
I msut not allow myeslf to disappear.
While I am writing, I am far away;
and when I come back, I have already left.
I shoudl like to see if the same thing happens
to other people as it does to me,
to see if as many people are as I am,
and if they seem the same way to themselves.
When this problem has been thoroughly expored,
I am going to school myself so well in things
that, when I try to explain my problems,
I shall speak, not of self, but of geography.
-Pablo Neruda
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Very pleasant, yet not...
This poem speaks of truth...truth of humanity, I believe.
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