by Pablo Neruda
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 in 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 single out myself? How can I put myself together?
All the books I read lionize dazzling hero figures, always 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'm far away; and when I come back, I've gone.
I would like to know if others go through the same things that I do,
have as many selves as I have, and see themselves similarly;
and when I've exhausted this problem, I'm going to study so hard that when I explain myself,
I'll be talking geography.
(from Selected Poems [Edición bilingüe])
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