WE ARE MANY

of the many men whom i am, whom we are,

i cannot settle on a single one.

they are lost to me under the cover of clothing

they have departed for another city.

when everything seems to be set

to show me off as a man of intelligence,

the fool i keep concealed on my person

takes over my talk and occupies my mouth.

on other occasions, i am dozing in the midst

of people of some distinction,

and when i summon my courageous self,

a coward completely unknown to me

swaddles my poor skeleton

in a thousand tiny reservations.

when a stately home bursts into flames,

instead of the fireman i summon,

an arsonist bursts on the scene,

and he is i. there is nothing i can do.

what must i do to distinguish myself?

how can i put myself together?

all the books i read

lionize dazzling hero figures,

brimming with self-assurance.

i die with envy of them;

and, in films where bullets fly on the wind,

i am left in envy of the cowboys,

left admiring even the horses.

but when i call upon my DASHING BEING,

out comes the same OLD LAZY SELF,

and so i never know just WHO I AM,

nor how many i am, nor WHO WE WILL BE BEING.

i would like to be able to touch a bell

and call up my real self, the truly me,

because if i really need my proper self,

i must not allow myself to disappear.

while i am writing, i am far away;

and when i come back, i have already left.

i should like to see if the same thing happens

to other people as it does to me,

to see if as many people are as i am,

and if they seem the same way to themselves.

when this problem has been thoroughly explored,

i am going to school myself so well in things

that, when i try to explain my problems,

i shall speak, not of self, but of geography.

-pablo neruda (and ada)

so long, america.