The White Mans Burden

Lost in the forest, I broke off a dark twig
and lifted its whisper to my thirsty lips:
maybe it was the voice of the rain crying,
a cracked bell, or a torn heart.

Something from far off it seemed
deep and secret to me, hidden by the earth,
a shout muffled by huge autumns,
by the moist half-open darkness of the leaves.

Wakening from the dreaming forest there, the hazel-sprig
sang under my tongue, its drifting fragrance
climbed up through my conscious mind

as if suddenly the roots I had left behind
cried out to me, the land I had lost with my childhood---
and I stopped, wounded by the wandering scent

by Pablo Neruda

Comments (4)

A whole past lost to the Conquistadors, so tragically expressed by a truly great poet
A twig, a small remnant of a much greater thing. A remnant with its own stories, own burdens, own memories. What remnants do we leave in the trail of our living, and what will their story be to those who listen?
I have felt that many times. An excellent work.
The roots i had left behind. Thanks for sharing this poem with us.