Im Explaining a Few Things

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    <strong>Im Explaining a Few Things</strong>

    Yoing to ask: and where are the lilacs?

    and the poppy-petalled metaphysics?

    and the raiedly spattering

    its words and drilling them full

    of apertures and birds?

    Ill tell you all the news.

    I lived in a suburb,

    a suburb of Madrid, with bells,

    and clocks, and trees.

    From there you could look out

    over Castilles dry face:

    a leather o.

    My house was called

    the house of flowers, because in every y

    geraniums burst: it was

    a good-looking house

    with its dogs and children.

    Remember, Raul?

    Eh, Rafel? Federico, do you remember

    from uhe ground

    my balies on which

    the light of June drowned flowers in your mouth?

    Brother, my brother!

    Everything

    loud with big voices, the salt of merdises,

    pile-ups of palpitating bread９９ｌiｂ?,

    the stalls of my suburb uelles with its statue

    like a drained inkwell in a swirl of hake:

    oil flowed into spoons,

    a deep baying

    of feet and hands swelled ireets,

    metres, litres, the sharp

    measure of life,

    stacked-up fish,

    the texture of roofs with a cold sun in which

    the weather vane falters,

    the fine, frenzied ivory of potatoes,

    wave on wave of tomatoes rolling down the sea.

    And one m all that was burning,

    one m the bonfires

    leapt out of the earth

    dev human beings --

    and from then on fire,

    gunpowder from then on,

    and from then on blood.

    Bandits with planes and Moors,

    bandits with finger-rings and duchesses,

    bandits with bla>.</a> friars spattering blessings

    came through the sky to kill children

    and the blood of children ran through the streets

    without fuss, like childrens blood.

    Jackals that the jackals would despise,

    stohat the dry thistle would bite on and spit out,

    vipers that the vipers would abominate!

    Face to face with you I have seen the blood

    of Spain tower like a tide

    to drown you in one wave

    of pride and knives!

    Treac..herous

    generals:

    see my dead house,

    look at broken Spain :

    from every house burnial flows

    instead of flowers,

    from every socket of Spain

    Spain emerges

    and from every dead child a rifle with eyes,

    and from every crime bullets are born

    which will one day find

    the bulls eye of your hearts.

    And youll ask: why doesnt his poetry

    speak of dreams and leaves

    and the great voloes of his native land?

    e ahe blood ireets.

    e and see

    The blood ireets.

    e ahe blood

    Ireets!

    <strong>Pablo Neruda</strong>

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