The only ritual a ritual of light over a gravesite .
Cypresses, old churches at the edge of things.
Marble I can feel.
Granite tombs among the hedges.
A certain state of mind that magnifies the passing of time.
A certain grace she inhabits, a state that cannot
be approached,
only encountered, borne.
The truth, on a Saturday afternoon
in late winter is not to be encountered.
The mind, ragged, is not
ready for the fact.
The encounter with the other dissolves in her hair.
Gone among the sunken factories.
The truth, from the point of view
of an avenue, a forest path, a tree frog.
The truth, said Schopenhaeur somewhere,
should not be mistaken
for a willed honesty.
Joao Cabral de Melo Neto
ENCOUNTER WITH A POET
In a certain place in La Mancha
where the Castilian plain is hardest,
in the midst of a stiff blowing
wind armed with sand,
I was surprised by the presence,
Editor's Note: Miguel Hernandez (b. 1910) was captured by Franco's forces in the
Spanish Civil War. He wrote much of his poetry in prison, where he remained until
his death in 1942 .
