At the first encounter, I thought
That he stole my mother’s tablecloth,
And called it Great,
While she turned the flour into bread.
What if they were lovers?
And shared the same tablecloth,
While my father was sweating in his fields,
And my mother was sipping wine from her grapes,
And the poet wrote songs of despair, as he could not have her.
I shake away my childish thoughts and doubt even more.
What if they were traders?
trading the tigers, the bread,
the tyrants, the grim teeth,
the wine fields and hard eyes,
the lamb, the onions,
the hunger and the thirst,
the hours of eating the strawberries
and the blossoms on the great tablecloth.
Oh, I am childish, and jealous, and curious,
And can not stop the thought of stolen tablecloth.
What if when sad and lonely he put a spell on my mother?
And used her as a tablecloth for those who never eat,
And those who never loved, for those who never cried,
And those who never turned the flour into bread.
For those who never let their hearts be Neruda's great tablecloth.
Pablo Neruda was a Chilian writer that wrote "The Great Tablecloth" poem. I have had this poem in my heart for a long time. It feels great to have it written in English. :)