rays

of the many men who i am, who we are,
i cant find a singe one;
they disappear among my clothes,
they've left for another city.

when everything seems to be set
to show me off as intelligent,
the fool i always keep hidden
takes over all that i say.

at other times, i'm asleep
among distinguished people,
and when i look for my brave self,
a coward unknown to me
rushes to cover my skeleton
with a thousand fine excuses.

when a decent house catches fire,
instaed of the fireman i summon,
an arsonist bursts on the scene,
and that's me. what can i do?
what can i do to distinguish myself?
how can i pull myself together?

all the books i read
are full of dazzling heroes,
always sure of themselves.
i die with envy of them;
and in films full of wind and bullets,
i goggle at cowboys,
i even admire the horses.

but when i call for a hero,
out comes my lazy old self;
so i never know who i am,
nor how many i am or will be.
i'd love to be able to touch a bell
and summon the real me,
becasue if i really need myself,
i musn't disappear.

while i am writing, i'm far away;
and when i come back, i've gone.
i would like to know if others
go through the same things that i do,
have as many selves as i have,
and see themselves similarly;
and when i've exhausted this problem,
i'm going to study so hard
that when i explain myself,
ill be talking geography.




(pablo neruda. we are many.)