Es la hora de partir, la dura y fría hora
que la noche sujeta a todo horario.
El cinturón ruidoso del mar ciñe la costa.
Surgen frías estrellas, emigran negros pájaros.
Abandonado como los muelles en el alba.
Sólo la sombra trémula se retuerce en mis manos.
Ah más allá de todo. Ah más allá de todo.
Es la hora de partir. Oh abandonado!
— Pablo Neruda, “La Canción Desesperada”
What do you seek, little one?
What are you looking for, when you walk into a corner and stand, unseeing, with your nose pointed to the wall? What drives you to squeeze behind tables and chairs, to hide under sofas and beds where nothing and no-one can disturb your privacy but the slow drifting down of dust?
What makes you stop and stare across the street, at nothing at all? What makes you turn and walk slowly toward that emptiness, as if to some summons only you can hear?
I know it is nothing you see, or smell, or hear. You are like a plant, turning blindly toward the heat of a sun you feel but cannot see. The call is patient, beckoning.
What goes through your head at these moments? You must be waiting; waiting for the moment when that invisible door finally cracks open, flooding you with light and beckoning you to your long home. You must pass through that door alone, as we all must.
I will miss you when you go.
I cannot follow you now, Old Friend, not now. But I hope to see you again soon.
© 2012 The Epicurean Dealmaker. All rights reserved.
