Oda cat
Pablo Neruda
Animals
were imperfect, long-tailed
, sad
head.
Little by little they
composing,
becoming a landscape,
acquiring spots, grace, flight.
The cat, only the cat
appeared complete and proud:
born completely finished,
walking alone and knowing what you want.
The man wants to be fish or fowl,
the snake would have wings,
the dog is a lost lion,
the engineer wants to be a poet, fly
studies the swallow,
the poet tries to imitate the fly, but the cat
want to be just
cat and every cat is cat
from whiskers to tail,
from a rat living from
the night to his golden eyes. There is no unity
like him have no
the moon and the flower
such context:
is one thing
as the sun or a topaz,
and the elastic line in outline
strong and subtle like
line on the bow of a ship. His yellow eyes
have just one slot
to coin the gold of the night. O little emperor without globe
,
conqueror without country, tiny tiger
games, bridal
sultan of the sky of erotic tiles,
you claim
when you spend
and place four
delicate feet on the ground, smelling
,
distrust of all land, because todoes unclean
for the immaculate foot of the cat. Oh
fierce
independent house, arrogant
vestige of the night,
lazy, gymnastic and alien
,
profound cat, secret police
Room,
insignia of a missing
velvet, surely there
enigma to your manner, perhaps
are not a mystery,
everyone knows you and you belong
least mysterious inhabitant, perhaps everyone
believe,
everyone believes owners
owners, uncles
cats, colleagues
colleagues or friends
disciples of your cat.
I do not.
I do not subscribe.
I do not know the cat.
I know everything, life and its archipelago,
the sea and the incalculable city,
botany,
gynoecium with their loss,
the for and the least of mathematics, volcanic funnels
the world, shell
Unreal crocodile ignored
goodness of a firefighter,
the blue atavism of priests,
but I can not decipher a cat. My reason
slipped in their indifference, their eyes have
golden numbers.
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