I declare myself guilty of not having made, with these hands they
gave me, a broom.
Why didn't I make a broom?
Why did they give me hands?
What use have they been
if all I ever did was
watch the stir of the grain,
listen up for the wind
and did not gather straws
still green in the earth
for a broom,
not set the soft stalks to dry
and bind them
in a gold bundle,
and did not lash a wooden stick
to the yellow skirt
till I had a broom for the paths?
So it goes.
How did my life
get by
without seeing, and learning,
and gathering and binding
the basic things?
It's too late to deny
I had the time,
the time,
yet the hands were lacking,
so how could I aim
for greatness
if I was never able
to make
a broom,
not one,
not even one?
Pablo Neruda
translated by John Felstiner
