Monday's poem






Ode To Age by Pablo Neruda


I don't believe in age. All old people carry in their eyes, a child, and children, at times observe us with the eyes of wise ancients. Shall we measure life in meters or kilometers or months? How far since you were born? How long must you wander until like all men instead of walking on its surface we rest below the earth? To the man, to the woman who utilized their energies, goodness, strength, anger, love, tenderness, to those who truly alive flowered, and in their sensuality matured, let us not apply the measure of a time that may be something else, a mineral mantle, a solar bird, a flower, something, maybe, but not a measure. Time, metal or bird, long petiolate flower, stretch through man's life, shower him with blossoms and with bright water or with hidden sun. I proclaim you road, not shroud, a pristine ladder with treads of air, a suit lovingly renewed through springtimes around the world. Now, time, I roll you up, I deposit you in my bait box and I am off to fish with your long line the fishes of the dawn!