We Are Many
Of the many men whom I am, whom we are,
I ot settle on a single one.
They are lost to me uhe cover of clothing
They have departed for another city.
Whehing seems to be set
to show me off as a man of intelligence,
the fool I keep cealed on my person
takes over my talk and occupies my mouth.
On other occasions, I am dozing in the midst
of people of some distin,
and when I summon my ceous self,
a coward pletely unknown to me
swaddles my poor skeleton
in a thousand tiny reservations.
When a stately home bursts into flames,
instead of the fireman I summon,
an arsonist bursts on the se,
and he is I. There is nothing I do.
What must I do to distinguish myself?
How I put myself together?
All the books I read
lionize dazzling hero figures,
brimming with self-assurance.
I die with envy of them;
and, in films where bullets fly on the wind,
I am left in envy of the cowboys,
left admiring even the horses.
But when I call upon my DASHING BEING,
out es the same OLD LAZY SELF,
and so I never know just WHO I AM,
nor how many I am, nor ILL BE BEING.
I would like to be able to touch a bell
and call up my real self, the truly me,
because if I really need my proper self,
I must not allow myself to disappear.
While I am writing, I am far away;
and when I e back, I have already left.
I should like to see if the same thing happens
to other people as it does to me,
to see if as many people are as I am,
and if they seem the same way to themselves.
When this problem has been thhly explored,
I am going to syself so well in things
that, when I try to explain my problems,
I shall speak, not of self, but of geography.
Pablo Neruda