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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=553067" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>For Pablo Neruda (elegy)</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Lean men, <br>broad shouldered men, <br>I see them in the newspaper<br>with their perfectly styled hair<br>and their sagging inquisitive eyes<br>and the gold bars on the epaulets of their uniforms<br>	that shine even there is no light—<br>they took you down, Neruda, <br>it didn’t matter to them<br>that you emerged from the<br>		birthplace of shadows—<br>it didn’t matter to them <br>that you imitated the moon with words<br>for a woman, or that you screamed at the blood<br>on the factories <br>of the poor—<br>they simply wanted you dead—<br>you were weak, <br>you were old, <br>you saw it coming, <br>it was the same state police siren you heard <br>when they wanted you dead before—<br>I read how they withheld your medicine<br>when you were already dying, <br>how they confiscated your piece of land, <br>how they decorated the flowery bedrooms of militarymen<br>with your exotic collection of shells, <br>how they burned all your books that were related<br>	to the vegetation you were about to become.<br>I re-read your Nobel speech tonight, Neruda—<br>you said you always put your trust in man, <br>you said you never lost hope, <br>you said you believed in the prophecy of Rimbaud, <br>how “in the dawn, armed with a burning patience, we<br>		shall enter the splendid cities”—and now<br>the corporatemen, and the police informers, <br>and the military have covered the splendid city again<br>			with their piss and spit and bullets.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">It doesn’t matter to them.<br>All the fires are out of you <br>now, Neruda. There is no Phoenix—only<br>in your poems, <br>there is no splendid city—only<br>in words we are too rotten to believe.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">4 a.m.<br>The lamp in the patio<br>burns all night<br>like a wing<br>	on a dead body<br>		that won’t stop flying.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Doren+Robbins">Doren Robbins</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=553067" data-title="For Pablo Neruda (elegy) de Doren Robbins" data-description="Lean men, 
broad shouldered men, 
I see them in the newspaper
with their perfectly styled hair
and their sagging inquisitive eyes
and the gold bars on the epaulets of their uniforms
	that shine even there is no light—
they took you down, Neruda,..."></div>
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