I stopped writing at the age of twenty.
The Poetry, I thought, had no future
Like a women living close to black holes,
And her light would become myself a dark person.
My friends celebrated the extinction of my muses.
They said that Neruda would die of natural causes,
That the progress would be with weapons to the shoulder,
Full of shining caverns, and The History would reach its end.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem