Sonnet For Sleepless Phrophets

Sometimes our ilk, we cannot sleep
And for days sometimes we wonder about,
Minds meandering to, fro, in and out
At lightning speed - our ilk, which the witching hour keeps.

The moon has it's way of waking up
What we in daylight seem somehow to miss.
Deprived of pillow talk's tender goodnight kiss,
I feel it's time to find a bullet to bite and brown my cup.

As for desires of mine, first is dawn's crawl commencing,
Last is the alarm clock's beep and hateful hissing,
Not to mention a waking vacant and an absent lust.

As for regrets, there are yet few save worry,
For we sleepless prophets do lose soundness in a hurry,
But the perfect kissing couple seems a mattress and a dusk.

The New Sonnet For Helen

By Pablo Neruda

Translated by Martin Bemberg

When you are old, little girl (Ronsard already told you so),
You'll remember those distant verses I spoke.
You'll have breasts made mirthless by the nursing of your children,
The final sprigs of your vacant life…

I will be so far away that your hands of wax
Will plow away all record of my naked ruins.
You'll see how snow can come in spring
And how spring's snow is cruelest.

I will be so far away that the love and the pain,
Which I once poured into your life like a cruet brimming,
Will be condemned to die in my own hands…

And it will be evening, for my youth is leaving,
Evening, for only once do flowers share their essence,
For although you may call on me, I will be so far away.