vintch

in these memoirs or recollections there are gaps here and there, and sometimes they are also forgetful, because life is like that. intervals of dreaming help us to stand up under days of work. many of the things i remember have blurred as i recalled them, they have crumbled to dust, like irreparably shattered glass.

from what i have left in writing on these pages there will always fall-as in the autumn grove or during the harvesting of the vineyards-yellow leaves on their way to death, and grapes that will find new life in the sacred vine.

my life is a life put together from all those lives: the lives of the poet.

-neruda, memoirs