Sitting on Ice

“You have worn the years out, and the years have worn you out, and you have not written the poem yet” – Jorge Luis Borges

“Tonight I can write the saddest verses.” – Poem 20, Pablo Neruda

Tonight I can write the saddest verses.

But I will not.

I could write: “The ashes have stolen my smell. Now they belong to the wind.”

Or better yet: “The moss camouflages the bloodstained asphalt of The Road.”

But in the end, it is hard to write verses sadder than yours

Go around singing your chosen verses as if they were just an ordinary refrain.

The frogs’ voices could exacerbate my cough when I try to imitate them

The moon could hide behind the grayish bushes.

My mouth could be anemic of the blood that escapes your lips

I could search for years for the arrow in my bow,

the one that hits the target without departing

My ribs could hurt when I walk with cracked ankles

which have leftover skin

My knees could fuse with the earth as I would in my head

But nothing makes me sadder than your verses.

We could write the saddest verses tonight.

You, with your plush-goose pen"

I walk by the streets without entering barbershops that stink like rotten hairs.

You could get sad when you write these verses that ascertain you like daggers

You could get sad when she gets quiet,

being absent without your voice touching her.

Write now the saddest verses this sour night!

I prefer to sleep and leave the dirty work to you.

To discover in the twilight that you have died.

How can I equal your verses

If you have already exhausted everything for which I could be sad.

I could write my saddest verses tonight.

But the will never equal yours.

For me, it is enough to create the saddest night with my verses.