#陳黎詩選 #散文詩 聶魯達：我述說一些事情

I'll explain a few things. You may ask, where are the lilacs? And the metaphysics covered with poppies? And the rain that often hit its words, filling them with holes and birds? I'm going to tell you everything that happens to me. I lived in a neighborhood in Madrid with bells, with clocks, with trees. From there you could see the dry face of Castile like an ocean of leather. My house was called the house of flowers because there were geraniums everywhere. It was a beautiful house with dogs and kids. Raúl, do you remember? Do you remember? Rafael, Federico, do you remember under the ground? Do you remember my house with balconies where the light of June hung flowers in your mouth? Brother, brother, everything was in loud voices. Sales of goods, agglomerations of throbbing bread. Markets in my neighborhood of Argüelles with its statue like a pale inkwell between the watermelons. The oil reached the spoons. A deep beat of feet and hands filled the streets. Meters, liters, acute essence of life. Seasoned fish with roof texture, with cold sun in which the arrow gets tired. Delirious fine ivory of the potatoes. Repeated tomatoes up to the sea. And one morning everything was burning. And one morning the bonfires came out of the ground devouring beings. And since then fire, dust, since then, and since then blood. Bandits with planes and with walls. Bandits with whips and whips. They came from heaven to kill children. And through the streets the children's blood ran simply like children's blood. Jackals that the jackal would reject. Stones that the dry card would bite, spitting. Vipers that the vipers would hate. In front of you I have seen the blood of Spain rising to drown you in a single wave of pride and knives. Traitors generals, look at my dead house. Look at broken Spain. But from every dead house metal will come out burning instead of flowers. But from every hole of Spain Spain will come out. But from every dead child a rifle with eyes will come out. But from every crime bullets will be born that will one day find you the place of the heart. You will ask why his poetry does not speak to us of the dream of the leaves of the great volcanoes of his native country. Come and see the blood on the streets. Come and see the blood on the streets. Come and see the blood on the streets.