What's next?

Wonder what will happen next year. Will I get to do what I want to do? Will there be the money in the budget for it? Will the school make it another year? Probably...but the year after that?
This reminds me of a poem. So, in the spirit of Melissa Madenski, I will share it. It is part of Pablo Neruda's Book of Questions.


Is it true that a black condor
flies at night over my country?


How did the abandoned bicycle
win its freedom?


What do they call a flower
that flies from bird to bird?
. . .

And why did cheese decide
to perform heroic deeds in France?


Where is the center of the sea?
Why do waves never go there?


Do you have room for some thorns?
they asked the rosebush.


Where can you find a bell
that will ring in your dreams?


Why do I go rolling without wheels,
flying without wings or feathers,

and why did I decide to migrate
if my bones live in Chile?


Are they birds or fish
in these nets of moonlight?


Will our life not be a tunnel
between two vague clarities?
. . .

Or will life not be a fish
prepared to be a bird?


Do you not weep surrounded by laughter
with bottles of oblivion?


What do they call the sadness
of a solitary sheep?


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