Cuánto vive el hombre, por fin?
Vive mil días o uno solo?
Una semana o varios siglos?
Por cuánto tiempo muere el hombre?
Qué quiere decir “Para Siempre”?
Preocupado por este asunto
me dediqué a aclarar las cosas.
Busqué a los sabios sacerdotes,
los esperé después del rito,
los aceché cuando salían
a visitar a Dios y al Diablo.
Se aburrieron con mis preguntas.
Ellos tampoco sabían mucho,
eran sólo administradores.
Los médicos me recibieron,
entre una consulta y otra,
con un bisturí en cada mano,
saturados a aureomicina,
más ocupados cada día.
Según supe por lo que hablaban
el problema era como sigue:
nunca murió tanto microbio,
toneladas de ellos caían,
pero los pocos que quedaron
se manifestaban perversos.
Me dejaron tan asustado
que busqué a los enterradores.
Me fui a los ríos donde queman
grandes cadáveres pintados,
pequeños muertos huesudos,
emperadores recubiertos
por escamas aterradoras,
mujeres aplastadas de pronto
por una ráfaga de cólera.
Eran riberas de difuntos
y especialistas cenicientos.
Cuando llegó mi oportunidad
les largué unas cuantas preguntas,
ellos me ofrecieron quemarme:
era todo lo que sabían.
En mi país los enterradores
me contestaron, entre copas:
“-Búscate una moza robusta,
y déjate de tonterías”.
Nunca vi gentes tan alegres.
Cantaban levantando el vino
por la salud y la muerte.
Eran grandes fornicadores.
Regresé a mi casa más viejo
después de recorrer el mundo.
No le pregunto a nadie nada.
How long does a man live, after all?
Does he live a thousand days, or one only?
A week, or several centuries?
How long does a man spend dying?
What does it mean to say ‘for ever’?
Lost in these preoccupation
I set myself to clear things up.
I sought out knowledgeable priests.
I waited for them after their rituals,
I watched them when they went their ways
to visit God and the Devil.
They wearied of my questions.
They on their part knew very little;
they were no more than administrators.
Medical men received me
in between consultations,
a scalpel in each hand,
saturated in aureomycin,
busier each day.
As far as I could tell from their talk,
the problem was as follows:
it was not so much the death of a microbe -
they went down by the ton -
-but the few which survived
showeds signs of perversity.
They left me so startled
that I sought out the gravediggers.
I went to the rivers where they burn
enormous painted corpses,
tiny bony bodies,
emperors with an aura
of terrible curses,
women snuffed out at a stroke
by a wave of cholera.
There were whole beaches of dead
and ashy specialists.
When I got the chance
I asked them a slew of questions.
They offered to burn me;
it was the only thing they knew.
In my own country the undertakers
answered me, between drinks:
‘Get yourself a good woman
and give up this nonsense.’
I never saw people so happy.
Raising their glasses they sang,
toasting health and death.
They were huge fornicators.
I returned home, much older
after crossing the world.
Now I question nobody.
But I know less every day.
— Pablo Neruda, Selected Poems
