I was seven,
But it wasn't a toy passed through a gap in the fence by a hand
And a face unseen,
It was blood,
Blood pouring from my mouth and painting my shirt crimson
Staining the ground in puddles and rivers;
The terrified looks that the teachers wore
I was awake and alive and dying
They saw me dying,
And it must have been a dream because I couldn't feel pain,
But I still have the scars
I was seven when the child I knew was lost
But it wasn't growing up it was caving in and carving my pain in stone
As the buzzards circle
It was blood
My blood of disbelief that any god could let a curse as such exist
Painting my mind black only;
Fertile ground where the devil plays
I was cold and cruel and unfeeling
I was dying
For the very first time I was a man without a heartbeat,
But still with dreams
I was seven when the games I played could not be won
But it wasn't because the sky is never ending
It was confining limitations and clouds
It was blood
My blood boiling, my seething disposition, my nightmares
That taught me how to hate;
Emptiness being made full by poison
In my fingers and veins and my hurting heart
I was dying
Shouting obscenities to the heavens where no god was found
But still hoping he would hear
I was seven
We all have a reason we write, no two ever have the same reason. This poem is a bio.
something started in my soul,
fever or forgotten wings,
and I made my own way,
deciphering
that fire
and wrote the first faint line,
faint without substance, pure
nonsense,
pure wisdom,
of someone who knows nothing,
and suddenly I saw
the heavens
unfastened
and open.
“”
From "Poetry", Memorial de Isla Negra (1964)
Pablo Neruda