Memory by Pablo Neruda — Read

I have to remember everything, keep track of blades of grass, the threads of all untidy happenings, the resting places, inch by inch, the infinite railroad tracks, the surfaces of pain.

If I were to misplace one rosebud and confuse night with a hare, or even if one whole wall of my memory were to disintegrate

I am obliged to make over the air, steam, earth, leaves, hair, even the bricks, the thorns which pierced me, the speed of flight.

Be gentle with the poet.

I was always quick to forget, and those hands of mine could only grasp intangibles, untouchable things which could only be compared when they no longer existed.

The smoke was an aroma, the aroma something like smoke, the skin of a sleeping body which came to life with my kisses; but don't ask me the date or the name of what I dreamed- nor can I measure the road which may have no country or that truth that changed or perhaps turned off by day to become a wandering light, a firefly in the dark.