Pablo Neruda

(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973 / Parral / Chile)

Lost in the forest...


Lost in the forest, I broke off a dark twig
and lifted its whisper to my thirsty lips:
maybe it was the voice of the rain crying,
a cracked bell, or a torn heart.

Something from far off it seemed
deep and secret to me, hidden by the earth,
a shout muffled by huge autumns,
by the moist half-open darkness of the leaves.

Wakening from the dreaming forest there, the hazel-sprig
sang under my tongue, its drifting fragrance
climbed up through my conscious mind

as if suddenly the roots I had left behind
cried out to me, the land I had lost with my childhood---
and I stopped, wounded by the wandering scent.

Submitted: Friday, January 03, 2003

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  • Joe Kim (2/22/2006 10:36:00 PM)

    this is one of my favorites by neruda. the longing for his lost childhood comes across like a journey through his mind. the imagery and the pang i feel at the end at the loss of my own childhood.. it's surreal. (Report) Reply

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