The enemy

Today I had a visit from an enemy.

It’s all about a man sealed

in his truth, in his castle,

as in an iron box,

with his own breathing

and the singular swords

he nursed for punishment.

I saw the years on his face,

in his eyes of weary water,

in the lines of solitude

that climbed him at the temples

ever so slowly, from pride.

We spoke in the light

of a pullulating noon,

with a wind that scattered sun

and sun at combat in the sky.

But the man only showed

his new keys, the way

of all doors. I believe

that within him there was silence

that could not be shared.

He had a stone in his soul:

he kept his hardness.

I thought of his mingy truth

buried hopeless

of wounding anyone but himself

and saw my poverty-stricken truth

mistreated within me.

There we were each

with his keen certitude

and hardened by time

like two blind men defending

each his darkness.

Pablo Neruda