If you should ask me where I've been
I must reply: "It happens."
I must speak of the soil obscured by the stones,
of the river destroyed while still existing.
I know only things that birds lose,
The ocean left behind, or my weeping sister.
Why are there so many regions? 
Why does one day join with another day? 
Why does a black night accumulate in the mouth?
Why do the dead exist?
If you should ask from where I came,
I must speak about broken things.
About utensils far too bitter,
About huge beasts often decayed, and about
my distressed heart.

All that have passed have not been memories
Nor is what sleeps in forgetfulness a yellow dove,
But rather, faces wet with tears, fingers at the throat,
And all that collapses from the leaves;
The obscurity of a day gone by,
A day fed with our sad blood.

I'll show you violets, swallows
And all that pleases us and appears
On the pretty large postcards
Sent back from places that time and sweetness
visit on their trip.

But let's not penetrate beyond the teeth
let's not chew on the husks that silence accumulates. (******)
Because I do not know what to answer:
There are so many dead,
And so many seawalls that the red sun has damaged,
And so many heads that the ships strike,
And so many hands that have imprisoned kisses,
And so many things that I want to forget.

Pablo Neruda