The sick man sunbathes

What do you do, all but dead, if the new day Monday

spun by the sun, fragrant as a kiss,

hung from its marked place

and dedicated itself to molest your crisis?

You were exiting your infirmity,

your lacerating suppositions

at whose extreme the tunnel

exitless, the darkness with its final report

awaits you: the silence

of your heart or some other

menaced viscera

sinks you in the certitude of goodbyes

and you closed your eyes, given up

to pain, to its successive wind.

And today cast off from your bed

you see so much light that does not fit the air

you think that if, that if you had died

not only would nothing ever have happened

but never was such a feast possible

like the beautiful day of your interment.

Pablo Neruda