Too Many Names

Mondays are meshed with Tuesdays
And the week with the whole year.
Time cannot be cut
With your exhausted scissors,
And all the names of the day
Are washed out in the waters of the night.


No-one can claim the name of Pedro
Nobody is a Rosa or Maria,
All of us are dust and sand,
All of us are rain under rain,
They have spoken to me of Venezuelas,
of Chiles and Pargaguays;
I have no idea what they are saying,
I know only of the skin of the earth
And I know it is without a name...

Pablo Neruda