"Perfection is not something I admire. [Laughs]. A touch of confusion is a desirable ingredient.”
Extract from “Dead Woman” by poet Paulo Neruda:
No, forgive me.
If you are not living,
if you, beloved, my love,
all the leaves will fall on my breast,
it will rain upon my soul night and day,
the snow will burn my heart,
I shall walk with cold and fire and death and snow,
my feet will want to march toward where you sleep,
I shall go on living,
because you wanted me to be, above all things,
and, love, because you know that I am not just one man
but all men.
The truth never sings at the roar of night,
When she comes to my salvation, but neither really saves.
Left in the midst are pieces of two,
Your checkered mate, soul’s breach.
I wonder how the flowers on your dress never dance away
In high heaven
For the proximity of her encompassing.
Then I start to ask: what are night’s words?
If the seasons split, and still no trace of her humble shadow,
Just a vestige note, curvilinear writing
And an empty wig.
I have searched ‘til the end of the purple carpet,
To see what your breath has left,
If only you could show me
How you lived.