Weeks amble by, anteaters,
oblivious of us, the observers and consumers of time.
They have stepped out of Neruda’s poem:
Out of the fecund jungles
of South America.
They are happy to find the reddish-brown domes
in the dormant winter veld
With strong claws they slash open
anthills, they dash their whiplike tongues inside,
gorge themselves on termites, which we call ants.
What about the hours and days
that are fleshed in Pablo’s other animals?
Will they thrive here?
Will the guanaco, rarefied as oxygen,
with its gold-flecked boots,
and compassionate eyes,
be able to graze on the dead grass?
And the anaconda?
Will it turn into an ordinary python,
and lose its divine powers?
Shall we invite the wondrous animals
to our everyday lives?
Yes, we should.
Our leopard, reclining in a camel thorn tree,
is thinking Roman thoughts.
Impalas flee from him,
but worship him,
the god of life and death.
Era el crepúsculo de la iguana.
Dersde la arcoirisada crestería
su lengua como un dardo
se hundía en la verdura