There's No Forgetting (Sonata) by PabloNeruda If you should ask me where I've been all this time I have to say "Things Happen." I have to dwell on stones darkening the earth, on the river ruined in its own duration: I know nothing save the things the birds have lost, the sea I left behind, or my sister crying. Why this abundance of places? Why does day lock with Day? Why the dark night swilling round in our mouths? And why the dead? Should you ask me where I come from, I must talk with broken things, with fairly painful utensils, with great beasts turned to dust as often as not and my afflicted heart. These are not memories that have passed each other nor the yellowing pigeon asleep in our forgetting; these are tearful faces and fingers down our throats and whatever among leaves falls to the ground: the dark of a day gone by grown fat on our grieving blood. Here are violets, and here swallows, all things we love and which inform sweet messages seriatum through which time passes and sweetness passes. We don't get far, though, beyond these teeth: Why waste time gnawing the husks of silence? I not what to answer: there are so many dead, and so many dikes the red sun breached, and so many heads battering hulls and so many hands that have closed over kisses and so many things that I want to forget.