Returning

After ten days of long journeying

and out of stock in opinions

I turn back to my being, to being myself,

the solitary societary

who always asks for the floor

to retain the right

of then keeping silent.

It turns out I arrive again

at the immovable center of myself

whence I never left

and as upon a sleeping watch

I see the truthful hour:

the one that stops one time

not to lead you unto death

but to open life to you.

It happens that I moved so much

my bones awoke

in mid sleep, walking

toward slums I crossed,

markets that sustained me,

schools that pursued me,

airplanes under the storm,

plazas full of gents and ladies urgent

and above my soul that doubtless

put to sleep its fatigue

my body continued its journeyings

with the trepidating vibration

of a truck full of stones

that was crushing my skeleton.

Let’s see, soul, let’s resuscitate

the point where met and greeted

hour hand and minute hand:

this is the gap of time

for going out from misfortune

and penetrating freshness.

(Thither is an infinite pool

made of sheets in equal parts

transpiring and transparency

and I do not need to move

the five fingers of one hand

to collect my sorrows

or the promised orange.)

From so much returning to this point

I understood I do not need

so many roads for walking,

nor so many external syllables,

nor so many men nor women,

nor so many eyes to see.

It seems—I don’t guarantee it—

that it’s enough this minute

that stops and precipitates

what you bear off inconclusive

and no matter your perfection,

nor your anxiety disseminated

in dusty directions:

Enough to come down and see

the silence that was awaiting you

and feel that there will arrive unto you

the temptations of autumn,

the invitations of the sea.

Pablo Neruda