Writing <br />these <br />odes <br />in this <br />year nineteen <br />hundred and <br />fifty-five, <br />readying and tuning <br />my demanding, murmuring lyre, <br />I know who I am <br />and where my song is going. <br />I understand <br />that the shopper for myths <br />and mysteries <br />may enter <br />my wood <br />and adobe <br />house of odes, <br />may despise <br />the utensils, <br />the portraits <br />of father and mother and country <br />on the walls, <br />the simplicity <br />of the bread <br />and the saltcellar. But <br />that's how it is in my house of odes. <br />I deposed the dark monarchy, <br />the useless flowing hair of dreams, <br />I trod on the tail <br />of the cerebral reptile, <br />and set things <br />-- water and fire - <br />in harmony with man and earth. <br />I want everything <br />to have <br />a handle, <br />I want everything to be <br />a cup or a tool, <br />I want people to enter a hardware <br />store through the door of my odes. <br />I work at <br />cutting <br />newly hewn boards, <br />storing casks <br />of honey, <br />arranging <br />horseshoes, harness, <br />forks: <br />I want everyone to enter here, <br />let them ask questions, <br />ask for anything they want. <br />I am from the South, a Chilean, <br />a sailor <br />returned <br />from the seas. <br />I did not stay in the islands, <br />a king. <br />I did not stay ensconced <br />in the land of dreams. <br />I returned to labor simply <br />beside others, <br />for everyone. <br />So that everyone <br />may live here, <br />I build my house <br />with transparent <br />odes.<br /><br />Pablo Neruda<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-house-of-odes/
