Past by Pablo Neruda

We have to discard the past

and, as one builds

floor by floor, window by window,

and the building rises,

so do we go on throwing down

first, broken tiles,

then pompous doors,

until out of the past

dust rises

as if to crash

against the floor,

smoke rises

as if to catch fire,

and each new day

it gleams

like an empty

plate.

There is nothing, there is always nothing.

It has to be filled

with a new, fruitful

space,

then downward

tumbles yesterday

as in a well

falls yesterday's water,

into the cistern

of all still without voice or fire.

It is difficult to teach bones

to disappear,

to teach eyes

to close

but

we do it

unrealizing.

It was all alive,

alive, alive, alive

like a scarlet fish

but time

passed over its dark cloth

and the flash of the fish

drowned and disappeared.

Water water water

the past goes on falling

still a tangle

of bones

and of roots;

it has been, it has been, and now

memories mean nothing.

Now the heavy eyelid

covers the light of the eye

and what was once living

now no longer lives;

what we were, we are not.

And with words, although the letters

still have transparency and sound,

they change, and the mouth changes;

the same mouth is now another mouth;

they change, lips, skin, circulation;

another being has occupied our skeleton;

what once was in us now is not.

It has gone, but if the call, we reply;

"I am here," knowing we are not,

that what once was, was and is lost,

is lost in the past, and now will not return.