Tuesday, June 30, 2009

Ode to the present {fragment}, by Pablo Neruda

This
moment
as smooth
as a board,
and fresh,
this hour,
this day
as clean
as an untouched glass
not a single
spiderweb
from the past:
we touch
the moment
with our fingers,
we cut it
to size,
we direct
its blooming.
It's living,
it's alive:
it brings nothing
from yesterday that can't be redeemed,
nothing from the past.

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