On the dogs’ path, my soul came upon
my heart. Shattered, but alive,
dirty, poorly dressed, and filled with love.
On the dogs’ path, there where no one wants to go.
A path that only poets travel
when they have nothing left to do.
But I still had so many things to do!
And nevertheless, there I was: sentencing myself to death
by red ants and also
by black ants, traveling through the empty villages:
fear that grew
until it touched the stars.
A Chilean educated in Mexico can withstand everything,
I thought, but it wasn’t true.
At night, my heart cried. The river of being, chanted
some feverish lips I later discovered to be my own,
the river of being, the river of being, the ecstasy
that folds itself into the bank of these abandoned villages.
Mathematicians and theologians, diviners
and bandits emerged
like aquatic realities in the midst of a metallic reality.
Only fever and poetry provoke visions.
Only love and memory.
Not these paths or these plains.
Not these labyrinths.
Until at last my soul came upon my heart.
It was sick, it’s true, but it was alive.
@ Roberto Bolano

“याद नहीं—-
स्मृति में रहना नींद में रहना हुआ
जैसे नदी में पत्थर का रहना हुआ
ज़रूर लम्बी धुन की कोई बारिश थी
याद नहीं निमिष भर की रात थी
या कोई पूरा युग था
स्मृति थी
या स्पर्श में खोया हाथ था
किसी गुनगुने हाथ में
एक तकलीफ थी
जिसके भीतर चलता चला गया
जैसे किसी सुरंग में
अजीब जिद्दी धुन थी
कि हारता चला गया
दिन को खूँटी पर टांग दिया था
और उसके बाद कतई भूल गया था
सिर्फ बोलता रहा
या सिर्फ सुनता रहा
ठीक-ठीक याद नहीं”

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