At the first encounter,
I thought that he stole my mother’s tablecloth, and
called it “great”, while she turned the flour into bread.
After I thought.
What if they were lovers? and shared the same tablecloth, while
my father was sweating in his shirt, and they called it “great”
when the mother was sipping wine from her fields,
and he was writing a desperate song as he could not have both.
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.
I am childish, and jealous, and curious, and
can not stop the thought of stolen tablecloth.
What if when desperate and lonely he put a spell on her?
and he spread a tablecloth
for those who never eaten, 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. :)