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 fields, and she was sipping wine from her grapes
when he wrote songs of despair, as they could not have each other,
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,
jealous,
curious, and can not stop the thought of stolen tablecloths:
- what if when sad and lonely he put a spell on my mother?
and used her as a tablecloth for those who never loved, or cried,
and those who never turned the flour into bread.
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. :)
